The outspan; tables of South Africa

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The outspan; tables of South A*''"; '•}' ••

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THE OUTSPAN

IPopulac 33. 66. movels.

Mrs. John Foster. By Charles Granville.

Tlie King of tlie Mountains. By Edmond About.

Mr. Blalce of Newmarlset. By E. H. Cooper.

Tie Outspan. By J. P. FiTZPATRitK.

A Fincbbeck Goddess. By Alice M. Kipling.

Tlie Beds of tlie Midi. By F]Slix Gras.

Stories for Ninon. By Emilb Zola.

Tbe Tower of Taddeo. By Odida.

The O'Connors of BaUinahlnch. By Mrs. Hungerford.

The Justification of Andrew Lehrun. By Frank

Barrett.
A Comedy of Masks. By E. Dowson and A. Moore.
Appasslonata. By Elsa D'Esterre-Keeling.
Eu's Daughter. By J. H. Fbarce.
Inconseiiuent Lives. By J. H. Fearce.
Her Own Folk. By Hector Malot.
Oapt'n Davy's Honeymoon. By Hall Caine.
A Marked Man. By Asa Cambridge.
The Three Miss Kings. By Ada Cambridge.
A Little Minx. By Ada Cambridge.
Not All in Vain. By Ada Cambridge.
A Knight of the White Feather. By Tasma.
Uncle Piper of Piper's Hill. By Tasma.
The Penance of Portia James. By Tasma.
The Copperhead. By Harold Frederic.
The Return of the O'Mahony. By Harold Frederic.
In the Valley. By Harold Frederic.
The Surrender of Margaret Bellarmlne. By Adeline

Sergeant.
The Story of a Penitent Soul. By Adeline Sergeant.
Nor Wife, nor Maid. By Mrs. Hungerford.
The Hoyden. By Mrs. Hungerford.
Mammon. By Mrs. Alexander.
Daughters of Men. By Hannah Lynch.
AEomanoeoftheCapeFrontler. By Bertram Mitford.
'Tween Snow and Fire. By Bertram Mitford.
Oriole's Daughter. By Jessie Fothergill.
The Master of the Magicians. By Elizabeth Stuart

Phelps and Herbert D. Ward.
The Head of the Firm. By Mrs. Riddell.
A Conspiracy of Silence. By G. Colmore.
A Daughter of Music' By G. Colmore.
According to St. John. By Am^lie Rives.
Kitty's Father. By Frank Barrett.
A Question of Taste. By Maarten Maartehs.
Oome Live with Me and be MJr Love. By Robert

Buchanan.

London : WM. HEINEMANN, bi Bedford St., W.C.

THE OUTSPAN

TALES OF SOUTH AFRICA

BY

J. PERCY FITZPATRICK

LONDON

WILLIAM HEINEMANN

1897

THE OUTSPAN.

' Theee is no wrt in the Telling that can equal the
C07isummate art of the Happening !'

It was a remark dropped by a forgotten someone
in a prospector's hut one night, years and years algo,
when we had exhausted snakes and hunting, lucky
strikes and escapes, and had got awSiy intt), coinci-
dences. One of the party had been telli-ng us an
experience of his. He was introduced on the day
he arrived to a man well known on the fields. It
seemed quite impossible that they could have met
before, for they compared dates and places for ten
years back, and yet both were puzzled by the hazy
suggestion of having seen the, other before, and,'
in our friend's case, of soinething more definite.
His remark to the other was :

*I can't help feeling tha%I saw you once in
a deyU of a fright somewhere— or dreamt it, I
suppose !'

But this first feeling faded quickly away, and

The Outspan

was utterly forgotten by both. Later on they
shared , a hut near Rimer's Creek, and afterwards,
when houses came into vogue, they lived for several
years together, whUe the first impression was lying
buried, but not dead.

One day, in the process of swapping yarns, the
other man was telling of the ' narrowest escape he
ever had ' — and all due to such a simple little mis-
take. A ticket-collector took the tickets at the
wrong end of a footbridge. Instead of collecting
them as the passengers from the train 'went on to
the bridge, he took them as they were going off.
The result was that the crowd of excursionists
was too great for the little bridge, and it slipped
between the abutments, carrying some two hundred
people into the river below, the narrator being one
of them. It Was then that the dormant idea
stirred and awoke — jumped into life — and our
friend put up his hands as he had done fifteen
years befote, when the little bridgte in Bath dropped,
' and gasped out : :.

'My Godl you were the other, chap that hung
on to the broken rail ! That's where we met 1'

That was what prompted the forgotten one to
say after, we had lapsed into sUenee :

-' There's no art in the Telling that can equal the
consummate art of the Happening 1'

And I only recall the remark because it must be

The Outspan

my apology for telling plain truth just as it
happened.

* it * * *

When a man has spent some years of his life —
the years of young manhood they generally are —
in the veld, in the waggon, or tent, or Bush, it is
an almost invariable rule that something which you
can't define germinates in him and never entirely
dies until he does. When this thing — this instinct,
feeling, craving, call it what you will — awakens, as
it periodically does, it becomes a madness, and they
call it trek-fever, and then, as an old friend used to
say, ' You must trek or burst !' , There are many
stories based on trek-fever, but this is not one of
them ; and if you were to ask those who know
them, or, better still, get hold of any of the old
hands, hard-headed, commonplace, unromantic
specimens though they might be, who have lived in
the veld— if you gave them time to let it slip
out unawares — you would find that every man jack
,of them woiild have something to say about the
camp-fire. I do believe that the fascination within
the fascination is the camp-fire in veld life, with
its pleasant yarn-swapping^ and its long, pregnant,
thoughtful silences, no less enjoyable. The least
loquacious individual in the world will be tempted
to unfold a tale within the circle of a camp-fire's
light.

. 1—2

The Outspan

Everything is so quietly, unobtrusively sociable,
and subjects are not too numerous in the veld, so that
when a man has something apropos or intereStiJig
to tell, he commands an appreciative audience.
Nobody bores, and nobody interrupts. Perhaps it
is the half-lazy preference for playing the listener
which everyone feels that is the best security
against bores and interruptions.

The charm of the life is indescribable, and none
who have tasted it ever weary of it,' ever forget it,
or cease to feel the longing to return when once
they have quitted it.

It was in '91, the year after the pioneers cut
their way through the Bush, with Selous to guide
them, and occupied Mashonaland. We followed
their trail and lived again their anxious nights and
days, when they, a small handful in a dense Bush,
at the mercy of the Matabele thousands, did not
know at what hour they would be pounced on and
massacred.

We crossed the Lundi, and somewhere beyond
where one of their worst nights was passed we
outspanned in peace and security, and gossiped
over the ruins of ancient temples 'and the graves of
modern pioneers. There were half a dozen of us,
and we lay round the fire in lazy silence, too
content to speak, simply living and drinking in
the indescribable glories of an ideal African night.

The Outspan

It was someone knocking his pipe out and asking
for the tobacco that broke the long silence, and the
old Barbertonian, who had had to move to release
the tobacco, looked round with the air of wanting
someone to talk to. As no one gave any sign, he
asked presently :

' Are you chaps asleep 1'

' No I' came in clear, wakeful voices, with various
degrees of promptness.

' I was just thinking,' he said, refilling his pipe
slowly, ' that this sort of thing-^a night like this,
you know, and aU that — although it seems perfec-
tion to us, isn't really so perfect after all. It all
depends on the point of view, you know. A night
like this must be a perfect curse to a lion or a tiger,
you know.'

' Your sympathies are too wide, old man,' said
the surveyor. 'Chuck me a light, and console
yourself that your predatory friends do well eK0]igii
when others are miserable. Take a more human
view.'

' If you want an outlet for your native sympathy,
you might heave me out a cushion,' suggested
another. ' I've made a pillow of a bucket, "^and.
got a dent in my head. The thick cushion, old boy,
and I'm with you so far as to say that the lions
have a jolly hard time of it' with so much fiiie
#eather.'

The Outspan

The Barbertonian lighted up his pipe and threw
the cushion at the last speaker.

' H'm 1' he grunted between piiffs. ' I was really
thinking of it from quite a human standpoint — the
view of that poor deyil who got lost here two
months ago. Now, he couldn't have thought much
of nights like these. Do you think he mused on
their beauty?'

' Oh, I heard something of him,' said one. ' Lost
for forty days in the wilderness, wasn't he 1
I remember. The coincidence struck me as
peculiar.'

' Yes, it was odd in a way. He was just "forty
days and forty nights." He went out with a rifle
and five cartridges to kick up a duiker along the
river bank here, and somehow or other got astray
towards sundown, and lost his head completely.
Five cartridges, seven matches, no grub, no coat,
no compass, and no savvey ! That's a fair start for
a forty days' picnic, isn't it ?' he resumed. ' Well,
he fired off all his cartridges by dark, trying to
signal to his camp, and then threw away his rifle.
Fact ! He broke the heads off two matches — he
was shaking so from fright — ^before he realized that
there were only seven altogether. But as he had
nothing to cook, it didn't reaUy make much differ-
ence whether he had matches or not.'

' What, in winter time, and with lions about V

The Outspan

' Yah ! Well, you get used to that. It was a bit
frosty, and sometimes wet, and at first the lions
worried him a lot and treed him several nights; but
he says that that was nothing, while the sense of
being lost — dead, yet alive — remained. What's
that ? Live ? Oh, he doesn't know himself how
he lived, but we could pretty well tell by his con-
dition when we found him. We were out shooting
about five mUes down-stream, and on one of the
sandy spits of the river we saw fresh footprints.
Nigger, we thought, as it was barefoot. We
wondered, because there were no kraals near here,
and we had seen no cattle spoor or footpaths. I
was on top of the bank every minute expecting a
duiker or Bush buck to make a bre'ak out, and — I
tell you — I don't know when I got such a start —
such a turn, I should say ^— as when I caught sight
of a white face lookidg at me out of an ant-bear
hole. Great ^sesar 1 there was something so infer-
nally uncanny, wild, and hunted in the look that I
instinctively got the gun round to cover him if h^
came at me. When the others came up, he
crawled out, stark naked, sunburnt, scratched,
shock-headed — still staring with that strange
hunted look^-came up to us and — ^laughed ! We
led him back to our camp. He could teU nothing,
could hardly understand any of our questions. He
was quite dazed. His hands were cut and dis-

8 The Outspan

figured, the nails were wprn off with burrowing
for roots. We went to his den. It was a big ant-
bear hole under an old tree and among rocks — a
well-chosen spot. He had burrowed it out a bit,
I think, and in a sort of pigeon-hole or socket in
the side of it there were a few nuts, and round
about there were the remains of nuts and chewed
roots, stones of fruit, and such things. I never
could understand how it was that, being mad as he
certainly was then, he had still the sense — well,
really it was an instinct more than any knowledge
— to get roots and wild-fruits to keep body and
souL together !'

' A suggestive subject, truly,' said a man who
had more millions to his credit than you
would expect of a traveller in Mashonaland.
' A man starving within rifle-shot of his friends
and supplies. Helpless in spite of the resources
that civilization gives him, and saved from absolute
death by a blessed instinct that we didn't know
was ours since the days of the anthropomorphic
ape ! H'm ! You're right, Barberton ! He
couldn't have thought much of the beauties of. the
night, and, if he thought at all, he must have
placed a grim and literal interpretation on the
Descent of Man when he was grubbing for roots
with bleeding, nail-stripped fingers or climbing for
nuts without a tail to steady him !'

The Outspan

Among us there was a retired naval^ man, a
clean-featured, bronzed, shrewd-looking fellow, who
was a determined listener during these camp-fire
chats ; in fact, he seldom made a remark at all.
He sat cross-legged, with one eye closed — a tele-
scope habit, I suppose — watching Barberton for,
quite a spell, and at last said, very slowly, and
seemingly speaking under compulsion :

'Well, you never know how they take these
shocks. We picked a man up once whose two
companions had lain dead beside him for days and
days. Before he became delirious, the last thing
he remembers was getting some carbolie acid from
a small medicine-chest. His mates had been dead
two days then, and he had not the strength to
heave them overboard. I believe he, wanted to
drink the carbolic. Any way, he spilt it, and went
oS his head with the smell of carbolic around him.
He recovered while with us — we were on a weary
deep-sea-sounding cruise — but twic& during the
voyage he had short but violent returns of the
delirium and the other conditions tha,t he was
suflfering under when we found him. By the
merest accident our doctor discovered that it tpas
the smell of carbolic that sent him ofi". Once —
years after this — he. nearly died of it. He had
had fever, and they kept disinfecting his room ; but,
luckily for him, he became dangerous and violent,

lo The Outspan

and they had to remove him to another place. He
was all right in a few days.'

'Do you believe that a man could live out a
reasonably long lifetime in the way that " forty
days " chap lived 1 I suppose he could, eh 1 Shoo !
Fancy forgetting the civilized uses' of tongue and
limbs and. brain !. It seems awful, doesn't it 1 and
yet men have been known to deliberately choose a
life of savagery and barbarism — men whose lines
had been cast in easy places, too !'

' That's all very well,' said Barberton. ' Now
you are speaking of fellows settling down among
savages and in the wilds voluntarily, and with
certain provisions ma;de for emergencies, etc., not of
men lost,'

' Even so, a man must deteriorate most horribly
under such circumstances.'

' Well,' said Barberton contemplatively, ' I don't
know so much about that. It aU depends upon the
man. Mind you, I do think that the end is always
fiasco — tragedy, trouble, ruin, call it what you
like. We can't throw back to barbarism at will.
For good or ill we have taken civilization, and the
man who quits it pays heavy toll on the road he
travels, and, likely enough, fetches up where he
never expected to.'

The man who wrote for the papers smiled.

' I know,' he said with kindling eye — ' I know.

The Outspan ii

It was just such a case you told us of at Churchill's
Camp the other night. A man of the best calibre
and training goes wild and marries two — mark you,
two I — Kaffir women, and becomes a Swazie chief,,
and then the drama of the '

' Drama be damned 1' growled Barberton, ' It
was one case out of twenty of ther.same sort.'

Barberton was nervously apprehensive of ridicule,
and hated to be traded and walked out for eflfects.

' I was up on the Transvaal-Swazie border in
'86,' said the millionaire. ' I remember you told
me something of them then. It was a warm
corner, Swaziel'and, then — about the warmest in
South Africa, I should think. Eh?'

'You're right. It was. But,' said Barberton,
turning to the correspondent, 'you were talking
of men going amok through playing white nigger.
Well, I can teU you this, that two of my best
friends have done that same trick, and I'd stake
my head that better men or more thorough gentle-
men never trod in shoe-leather, for all their Kaffir
ways.'

' Do you mean to say,' asked the millionaire,
' that you have known men settle down among
natives, living among them as one of themselves,
and still retain the manners, customs, instincts,
habits of mind and body, even to the ambitions,
of a white man V

12 The Outspan

' No — well, I cau't quite say that. Their ambi-
tions, as far as you could gauge them, were a
Kaffir's; that is, they aspired to own cattle, and'

to hunt successfully, ' but And yet I don't

know that it is right to say that even, because in
almost every case these men get the " hanker "
for white life again sooner or later. The Kaffir
ambition may be a temporary one, or it may be
that the return to white ways is the passing mania.
Who knows, any way ? From my own experience
of them, I can say that the return to their own
colour almost invariably means their doom and
ruin. I don't know why, but I've noticed it, and
it seems like — ^like a sort of judgment, if you
believe in those things.'

' And you know,' he said, after taking a few pulls
at the pipe again, ' there's a sense of justice in that,
too. Civilization, scorned and flouted, being the
instrument of its own revenge ! If one could vest
the abstract with personal feelings, what an ample
revenge would be hers at the sight of the renegade
^ — sick-hearted, weary, and shamefaced — coming
back to the ways of his youth and race, and suc-
cumbing to some one part of that which he had
despised and rejected in toto!'

Barberton generally became philosophic and
reminiscent on th^se fine nights. Someone would
make a remark of pretty general application, and

The Outspan 13

he would sit up and wag his old head a few times
in silence ; then, from force of habit, examine his
pipe and knock it out on the heel of his boot, and
then out would lounge some reminiscence in illus-
tration of his philosophy.

It was generally introduced by a long-drawn,
thoughtful, ' We-U, you know, I've always thought
there was something curious about these things,'
He would have another- squint down the empty
bowl of the pipe and ask for the tobacco. There
would be a couple of grunts, and then, as he lighted
up, he would say, between puffs, ' I remeimber, in
'78, up at Pilgrim's,' or, 'There was a fellow up
Barberton way in '86.'

This night he sat in tailor fashion, with an elbow
socketed in each knee-bend, and his hands clasped
over the bowl of his pipe.

' One of the rummiest meetings I ever had,' said
he, smiling thoughtfully at the recollection, ' was
in the Swazie country in '85. Did I ever tell you
about Mahaash and the Silver Spur ?'

He gave a gurgling sort of chuckle, and puffed
contentedly at the big-bowled briar.

' There were two of us riding through the Swaziie
country, and making for the landing-place on the
Maputa side. We had had a row with the Portu-
guese about some cattle that the niggers stole from
us. A couple of the niggers .got shot, of course,

14 The Outspan

during the discussion, and we had to quit for a
while and take a rest on the Lebombo. But that's
nix 1 When we got to the Komati, we were told
that there was a white man on the Lebombo whose
Kaffir name was Sebougwaan. That's the name
the niggers give to a man who wears an eyeglass
or spectacles. We were jogging along doing our.
thirty miles a day, living on old mealies roasted on
a bit of tin, and aii occasional fowl — Swazie fowl,
two to the meal — helped down by bowls of amazi
— ^thick milk, you know. We used to sleep out in
the Bush every night, with a blanket apiece and
saddles for pillows, and the horses picketed at our
heads. Man, it was grand on nights like this ! We
were always tired and often hungry ; but 'to lie there
in the peace and stillness of the Bush, to look up
at the stars like diamond dust against the sky, and
not care a damn for anything in God's world, why
— why — I caU that living ! All those months we
had no knowledge of the outer world. As far as
we were concerned, there might as well have been
none. We had one book, "The Ingoldsby Legends."
If anyone could have seen me reading Ligoldsby
by the light of the fire, and have heard every now
and then the bursts of laughter over " The Jackdaw
of Rheims " or " The Witches' Frolic," and others,
his face would have been a study, I expect.

'However, I was telling you about Mahaash.:

The Outspan 15

Mahaash was a big induna, and had about five to
seven thousand fighting men. He used to konza
to Umbandine, but paid merely nominal tribute,
and was jolly independent. He was the cleverest-
looking nigger I have ever seen. Small, thin, and
ascetic-looking, with wonderfully delicate hands,
clear features, and lustrous black eyes, Eeally, he
gave one the idea that he saw through everything,
or next to it, and though he said very little, he
looked one of the very determined quiet ones.
We had to pass his place to get to Seboug^aan's,
and, of course, had . to stay the day and pay our
respects. His kraal was on top of the highest
plateau, near the Mananga Bluff. It lay on the
edge of a forest, and the road:^an aggregation of
cattle-tracks — was very steep and very stony. You
can imagine we were not overflush just then, and
what puzzled us was what to give the chief as a
pi^esent when he, would accord us aij interview.
Eifles and ammunition we daren't part with, and
we were mortally afraid they were just the things
he would want to annex. Finally, it occurred to us to
present him with one of my chum's silver spurs,
Heroil didn't favour this, much. He said it would
likely cause trouble ; but I put that down to his
disinclination to spoil his pair of swagger spurs.
Only the day before our arrival the chief had
purchased a horse ; he had sent to Lydenburg for

1,6 The Outspan

it, and it was the first they had ever seen in that
part of the country — which seems odd when you.
think that the chief's own name, Mahaash, means
"the Horse." However, to proceed. We got
word next day that the chief would see us, and
after the usual hour's wait we had our indaba, and
presented the silver spur. I must say he viewed it
very suspiciously — very! — and when we showed
him how to put it on, he gave a slow, cynical smilei,
and made some remark in an undertone to one of
his councillors. I began to agree with Heron about
the unwisdom of giving a present so little under-
stood, and would gladly have changed it, but that
Mahaash — who was of a practical turn of mind —
sent a man for our horses, and bade us ride with
the " biting iron " on. We gave an exhibition of
its uses which pleased him, and we, too, felt quite
satisfied — ^for a moment ! But things didn't look
quite so well when he announced that he was going
to ride his horse, and he desired Heron to strap the
spur on to his bare foot. It was no use hesitating
— we had to trust to luck and the chances that a
skinny moke such as his was would take no notice
of a spur ; besides which Heron, with good presence
of mind, jammed the rowels on a stone and turned
most of the points. It was no good, however. The
chief had never been astride a horse before ; he was
hoisted up by a couple of stalwart warriors. Once

The Outspan 17

on, he laid hold of the mane with both hands, and
gripped his heels firmly under the horse's belly. I
saw the brute's ears go flat on his neck. The two
supporters stepped back. Mahaash swayed to one
side, and, I suppose, gave a convulsive grip with
the armoured heel. There was a squeal and scuffle,
and a black streak shooting through the air with a
red blanket floating behind it. The chief bounced
once on the stony incline, shot on for another ten
feet, and fetched up with his head against a rock.
I can tell you that for two minutes it was just hell
let loose. We dropped our rifles — we always carried
them — and ran to the chief. I believe if we had
kept them they'd have stuck us, for there were
scores of black devils round each of us, flashing
assegais in our faces, and yelling :'" Bolalile Inkos !
Umtagati ! umtagati !" — " They have killed the
chief ! Witchcraft ! witchcraft !" But in another
minute we saw Mahaash standing propped up by
several kehles, and holding one hand to his head.
He steadied himself for a moment, gave us one
steady, inscrutable look, and walked into his private
enclosure.

' For four days we remained there — prisoners in
fact, though not in name. Nothing was said about
leaving, but our guns and horses were gone, and we
were given a hut to ourselves in the centre of the
kraal. We didn't know whether Mahaash was

2

i8 The Outspan

dead, dying, or quite unhurt. We didn't know
whether we were to be despatched or set free, or
to be kept for ever. On the morning of the fifth
dd,y we found our horses tied to the cattle kraal in
front of our hut, and a gray-headed induna brought
word to us that Sebougwaan, for whom we were
looking, lived not far from there along the plateau.
We took the hint, and saddled up. As we were
starting an umfaan brought a kid, killed and
cleaned, and handed it to me — a gift from the
chief; and the old induna stepped up to Heron
with a queer look in his wrinkled, cunning old
phiz, and said :

' " The ^hief says, ' Hamba gahM ' (' Pleasant
journey '), " and sends you this."

' It was the silver spur.'

Barberton had another squint at his pipe, and
chuckled at the recollection of the old nigger's grim
pleasantry.

' But I was telling you about that white man on
the Bomba,' he resumed. ' Well, we weren't long
in. making tracks out of Mahaash's kraal, and as we
dodged along through the forest, following a foot-
path which just permitted a man on foot to pass, we
realized how poor a chance we'd have had had we
tried to escape. Every hundred, yards or so we
had to dismount to get under overhanging boughs
or trunks of fallen trees or networks of monkey-

The Outspan 19

ropes. The horses had got so used to roughing it
that they went like cats, and in several places they
had to duck under the heavy timber that hung,
portcullis fashion, across the dark little pathway.
This was the only way out at the back of Mahaash's.
In front of him, of course, were the precipitous
sides of the Lebombo Eange.

' We went on for hours through this sort of thing,
hardly seeing sunlight through the dense foliage ;
and when we got out at last into a green grassy flat,
the bright light and open country fairly dazzled us.
Here we met a few women and boys, who, in reply
to our stock question, gave the same old reply that
we had heard for days : " Sebougwaan I Oh,
further on ahead !"

' We just swore together and like one, man, for
- we really had reckoned to get to this flying Dutch-
man this time without further disappointments.
We looked around for a place to off'-saddle, and
made for a koppie surrounded by trees.

' Heron was ahead. As we reached the trees,
he pulled up, and with a growing grin called to me,
" I say, just look here ! Here's a rum start !"

'It was clearly our friend Sebougwaan, He was
standing .with arms akimbo, and feet well set apart,
surveying critically the framework of a house he
was putting up.

' He had a towel round his loins, and an eye-

m 2—2

20 The Outspan

glass screwed tightly into the near eye. Nothing
else.

' We viewed him en profile for quite awhile,
until he turned shasrply our way and saw us. It
was one of the pleasantest faces in the world that
smiled on us then. Sebougwaan walked briskly
towards us, saying :

' " Welcome, gentlemen, welcome. It's not often
I see a white face here. And, by-the-by, you'll
excuse my attire, won't you 1 The custom of the

country, you know, and ' In Kome ' WeU,

well. You'll off-saddle, of course, and have a"
snack. Here, Komola ! Bovaan ! Hi, you boys !
Where the devil are they ? Here, take these
horses and feed them. And now just ' walk into
my parlour.' Nothing ominous in the quotation,
I assure you."

' He bustled us around in the joUiest manner pos-
sible, and kept up a running fire of questions,
answers, comments, and explanations, whUe he
busied himself with our comfort.

• It was a round wattle-and-daub hut that he
showed us into, but not the ordinary sort. This
one was as bright and clean as a new pin. Bits of
calico and muslin and gay-coloured kapelaan made
curtains, blinds, and table-covers. The tables were
of the gin-case pattern, legs planted in the grouiid ;
the chairs ordinary Bush stools ; but what sttuck

The Outspan 21

me as so extraordinary was the sight of all the
English periodicals and illustrated papers laid out
in perfect order and neatness on the table, as one
sees them arranged in a reading-room before the
first frequenters have disturbed them. There was
also a little hanging shelf on which were five books.
I couldn't help smiling at them — the Bible, a
Shakespeare, the Navy List, a dictionary, and
Euff's Guide.

' They say that you may tell a man by his
friends, and most of all by his books ; but I
couldn't make much out of this lot, with one
exception. I looked at the chap's easy bearing,
the pleasant, hearty manner and torpedo beard, and
concluded that the Navy List, at any rate, was a bit
of evidence. However, he kept things going so
pleasantly and gaily that one had no time in which
to observe much.

' Lots of little things occurred which were strik-
ing and amusing in a way, because of the peculiar
surroundings and conditions of the man's life rather
than because of the incidents themselves. For
instance, when we owned up that we had had no
breakfast^ we found ourselves within a few minutes
enjoying poached eggs on toast, and I felt myself
grinning all over when the Swazie boy waited in
passable style with a napkin thrown carelessly over
one shoulder. Surely a -man must be a bit eccentric

22 The Outspan

to live such a life as this in such a place a;nd alone,
and yet take the trouble to school a nigger to wait
on him in conventional style.

' I thought of the peculiar littleness of teaching
a nigger boy that waiter's trick, and concluded
that our friend, whatever his occupation might be,
was not a trader from necessity. After breakfast
he produced some excellent cigarettes — another
fact in the nature of a paradox.

' We were making for the landing-place on the
Tembe River, and had intended moving along
again that day ; but our host was pressing, and
we by no means anxious to turn our backs on
so pleasant a camp, so we stayed overnight, and
became good friends right away.

' I was quite right. He had been in the navy
many years, and had given it up to play at explor-
ing. He said he had settled down here because there
was absolute peace and a blissful immunity from the
o'rdinary worldly wo^'ries. Once a week a native
runner brought him his mail letters and papers,
and, in fact, as he said, he was as near to the world
as he chose to be, or as far from it.

' He had a curious gold charm attached to a watch-
chain, which I saw dangling from a projecting
wattle-end in the dining-hut. I was looking at
this, and puzzled over it ; it seemed so unlike any-
thing I had ever seen. He saw me, and, after

The Outspan 23

putting us to many a futile guess, tol^ us laugh-
ingly that he had found it in one of the villages
they had sacked on the West Coast. I don't know
what sort of part he took in these nasty little wars,
but I'U bet it was no mean one. We listened that
night for hours to his easy, bright, entertaining
chat, and although he hardly ever mentioned him-
self or his own doings, one couldn't but see that he
had been well in the thick of things, and dearly
loved to be where danger was. Now and then
he let slip a reference to hardships, escapes, and
dangers, but only when such reference was
necessary to explain something he was telling us
of. What interested us most was his description
of General Gordon — "Chinese Gordon" — with whom
he appeared to have been- in close contact for a
gpod while. The little details he gave us made up
an extraordinarily vivid picture of the soldier-saint,
the man who could lead a storming-party, a forlorn
hope, with a Bible in one hand and a cane in the
other ; the man who, in the infiniteness of his love
and tenderness, and iu the awful immutability of
his decision and justice, realized qualities in a
dp^ee which we only associate with the Deity. I
felt I could see this man helping, feedingwith his own
short rations, nursing, and praying with, the lowliest
of his men, the incarnation of mercy. But I also
saw him facing the semi-mutinous regiment of

24 The Outspan

barbarians, and, with the awful passionless decision
of fate itself, singling out the leadeJfe her%€md there
— in all a dozen men — whom he shot dead before
their comrades, and turning again as calm and un-
moved as ever to repeat his order, which this time
was obeyed ! I pictured this man, with the splendid
practical genius to reconqu^and reorganize China,
treasuring a cutting which he had taken from what
he verily believed to be the identical living tree
from which Eve had plucked the forbidden fruit.
Surely, one of the enigmas of history !'

' Do you mean to say that's a fact ?' asked the
millionaire, as old Barberton paused.

' As far as I know, it certainly is. Our friend
told it as a fact, and not in ridicule, either, for he
had the deepest reverence and regard for Gordon.
He assured us, moreover, that Gordon was once
most deeply mortified and ofiended by a colleague
of his treating the matter as a joke and laughing
at it. Gordon never forgot that laugh, and was
always constrained and reserved in the man's pre-
sence afterwards.

' I wish I could remember a hundredth part of our
host's anecdotes of well-known people, descriptions
of places and of peoples, accounts of travels and
adventures. He seemed to know everyone and all
places. It was three in the morning before we
thought of turning in. After breakfast we saddled

The Outspan 25

up and bade adieu, but our friend walked along
part of tfie'^way with us to put us on the right
path. H64:?,was carrying a bunch of white Bush
flowers^^a curious fancy, I thought, for a man
clothed in a towel and an eyeglass. I remarked
on the beauty of the mountain flowers, and he held
up the bunch. • **

' " Yes," ' he said, " they are lovely, aren't they ?
Poor old Tarry ! He was my man — the only other
white man that ever lived here. He was with me
for many years, and died here two summers back
— fever contracted on the Tembe. Poor old fellow I
I fixed him up on the bluff yonder. He used to
gather these flowe^s}and sit there every day of his
•life Japing out towards Delagoa, wondering if we
would ever quit this place and get a sight of old
Ireland again. I take him a bunch once in a while.
Come up and see where a good friend lies."

' We left the horses and climbed up the rough
path, and looked at the unpretentious stone en-
closure and the soft slate slab with a rough-cut

inscription :

" Paddy Tabry's Eest !
Are ye ready ?
Aye, aye' sir!"

-' Our friend leaned over the low stone wall and
replaced the faded wreath by the fresh one.

' We left him standing there on the ridge, clear-

26 The Outspan

cut above the outline of the mountain, and took
our way down the rough cattle-path that wound
down to the still rougher, wilder kloof through
which our route lay. I remember so well the way
he was standing, one foot on a projecting rock,
arms folded, until we were rounding the turn that
took us out of sight. Then he waved adieu.
*****

' We had unpleasant times on that trip to the
Tembe. We met all the murderous ruffians in
that Alsatia, and they were all at loggerheads,
thieving and shooting with both hands. However,
we got out all right after months and months of
roaming about, owing to the trouble about those
Kaffirs, and L think we had both forgotten all
about Sebougwaan by the time we fetched up in
Lydenburg again. There was always something
happening in that infernal outlaw corner of Swazie-
land to keep the time from dragging !

' My chum went off to his farm ; but I had no
home, and toqk the road again with waggons, and
loaded for Barberton at slashing fine rates. I got
there just as the Sheba boom was well on. Com-
panies were being floated daily, shares were boom-
ing, money flowing freely. All were merry in the
sunshine of to-day. No one took heed of to-morrow.
Speculators were making money in heaps ; brokers
raking in thousands.

The Outspan 27

' You know how it is in a place like that. After
you have been there for a few hours, or a day or
two, you begin to notice that one name is always
cropping up offcener than any other ; one man seems
the most popular, important, and indispensable.
Well, it was the same here. There was always this
one name in everything — market, mines, sport,
entertainment — any blessed department. You can
just imagine — at least, you can't imagine— -my sur-
prise when I found that my naked white Kaffir
sailor-friend, Sebougwaan, was the man of the hour.
I couldn't believe it at first, and then a while
later it seemed to be the most natural thing in the
world ; for, if I ever met a man who looked the
living embodiment of mental, moral, and physical
strength, of good humour, grace, and frankness — a
born king among men — it was this chap.

' I met him next day, and he seemed more full of
life and personal magnetism than ever. After that
I didn't see him for three or four days ; you know
how time spins away in a wild booming market.
Then somebody said he was ill — down with dysen-
tery and fever at the Phoenix. I went oflf at once
to see him. I couldn't believe my eyes. He was
emaciated, haggard, with black-ringed eyes sunk
into his head, and so weak that he couldn't raise
his arm when it slipped from the bed. He spoke
to me in whispers and gasps, only a word or two,

28 The Outspan

and then lay back on the pillows with a terrible
look of suffering in his eyes, or occasionally drop-
ping the lids with peculiar suddenness ; and when
he did this the room seemed empty from loss of this
horrible expression of pain.

' I stood at the foot of his bed, and didn't know
what to do or say, and didn't know how to get out
of a room where I was so useless. This sort of
thing may only have lasted a few minutes, or
perhaps half an hour — I don't know ; but after
one long spell he opened his eyes suddenly and
looked long and steadily into mine, sat bolt upright,
apparently without effort, lifted his glance tUl I felt
he was looking over my head at something on the
wall behind me, and then raised both arms, out-
stretched as though to receive something, and,
groaning out, " Oh, my God ! my poor wife !"
dropped back dead.'

*****

There were five intent faces upturned at Bar-
berton as he stopped. The rosy glow of the fire
lighted them up, and the man nearest me— the
millionaire — whispered to himself, ' Good God !
how awful !'

' Well, who was he 1 Did you ' began the

man who wrote for the papers.

Barberton looked steadily at him, and with
measured deliberation said :

The Outspan 29

' We never knew another word about him.
From that day to this nothing has ever been heard
to throw the least light on him or what he said.'

Far away in the stillness of the African night
we heard the impatient half- grunt, half -groan
of the lion. Near by there was a cricket chirp-
ing; and presently a couple of the logs settled
down with a small crunch, and a fresh tongue of
flame leaped up. Barberton pumped a straw up
and down the stem of the faithful briar, and re-
marked sententiously :

'Yah, it's a rum old world, this of ours ! I've
seen civilization take its revenge that way quite a
lot of times — ^just like a woman !'

No one else said a word. Now and then a
snore came from under the waggon where the
drivers were sleeping.

• The dog beside me gave some abortive whimpers,
and his feet twitched convulsively — no doubt he
was hunting in dreamland. I felt depressed by
Barberton's yarn.

*M, ^ J^ JU

•IP •TV Tt" ^V

But round the , camp-fire long silences do not
generally follow a yarn, however often they pre-
cede one. One reminiscence suggests another, and
it takes very, very little to tempt another man to
recall something which 'that just reminds him of.'

It was the surveyor wh'o rose to it this time ; I

30 The Outspan

could see the spirit move him. He sat up, stroked
his clean-shaven face, closed the telescope eye, and
looked at Barberton.

' Do you know,' he began thoughtfully, ' you
talk of chaps going away because of something
happening — some quarrel or mistake or oflfence or
soniething. That is all a sort of clap-trap romance,
I know-^the mystery trick, and so forth ; but I
confess it always interests me, although I know it's
all rot, because of a thing which happened within
my own knowledge — an aflfair of a shipmate of
mine, one of the best fellows that ever stepped
the earth, in spite of the fact that he was a regular
Admirable Crichton.

' He was an ideal sort of chap, until you got to
know him really well, and found out that he was
cursed with one perfectly miserabl& trait. He
never — absolutely never — forgave an injury,
affront, or cause of quarrel. He was not huffy
or bad-tempered — a sunnier nature never was
created ; a more patient, even-tempered chap never
lived — but it was really appalling with what im-
mutable obstinacy he refused to forgive. In the
instances that came under my own notice, where
he had quarrelled with former friends — not through
his own fault, I must say — nothing in this world,
or any other, for that matter, could influence him
to shake hands or renew acquaintance. His gener-

The Outspan 31

osity and unselfishness were literally boundless,
his courage and fidelity superb ; but anyone who
had seen evidence of his fault must have felt sorrow
and regret for the blemished nature, and must have
been awestruck and frightened by his relentlessness.
Death all round him, the sight of it in friends, the
prospect of it for himself, never shook his cursed
obstinacy ; as we knew, after one piece of business.
He got the V.C. for a remarkable — in fact, mad—
act of courage in rescuing a brother officer. The man
he carried out, fought for, fought oyer, and nearly
died for, was a man to whom he had not spoken
for some years. God knows what the difference was
about. This was their first meeting since quitting
the same ship, and when he carried his former friend
out and laid him safely in the surgeon's corner of
the square, the half-dead man caught his sleeve, and
called out, " God bless you, old boy 1" All he did
was to loosen the other's grip gently, and, without a
word or look at him, walk back into the fight. It
seems incredible — it did to us ; but he wouldn't
know him again. He had literally wiped him out
of his life I

* This trait was his curse. He was well off and
well connected, and he married one of the most
eharming women I have ever met. For years
none of us knew he was married. His wife was, I
am convinced, as good as gold ; but she was young,

32 The Outspan

attractive, accomplished, and, in fact, a born con-
queror. Perhaps she was foolish to show all the
happiness she felt in being liked and admired.
You know the long absences of a sailor. Well,
perhaps she would have been wiser had she cut
society, altogether ; but she was a true, good
woman, for all that, and she worshipped him like a
god ! None of us ever knew what happened ; but
he left wife and child, settled on them all he had
in the world, handed over his estates and almost
all his income, and his right to legacies to come,
went out into the world, and simply erased them
from his mind and life.

' That was a good many years ago — ten, I should
think ; and — I hate to think it — but I wish I was
as sure of to-morrow as I am sure that he never
recognised their existence again.'

The surveyor shuddered at the thought.

' He was a man who could do anything that
other men could do. He was best at everything.
He was loved by his mates, worshipped by his
men, and liked and admired by everyone who met
him — until this trait was revealed. Others must
have felt as I did. When I discovered that in
him, I don't know whether I was more frightened
or grieved. I don't know that I didn't stick to
him more than ever — perhaps from pity, and the
sense that he was his own enemy and needed help.

The Outspan 33

I have never heard of or from him since he left the
service, and yet I believe I was his most intimate
friend. Oliver Eaymond Rivers was his name.
Musical name, isn't it ?'

Barberton dropped his pipe.
' ' Good God ! Sebougwaan !'

SOLTKE.

I

AN INCIDENT OF THE DELAGOA ROAD.

We were transport-riders trekking with loads from
Delagoa Bay to Lydenburg, trekking slowly through
the hot, bushy, low veld, doing our fifteen to
twenty miles a day. The roads were good and the
rates were high, and we were happy.

Towards sundown two of us strolled on ahead,
taking the guns in hopes of picking up a guinea-
fowl, or a stembuck, or some other small game,
leaving the waggons to follow as soon as the cattle
were inspanned. We shot nothing; in fact, we
saw nothing to shoot. It was swelteringly hot, as
it always is there until the red sun goes down and
all things get a chance to cool. It was also very
dusty — two or three inches of powdery dust under
our feet, which whipped up in little swirls at the
least breath of air. I was keeping an eye on the
scrub on my side for the chance of a bush pheasant,
and not taking much notice of the road, when my

Soltke 35

companion pulled up with a half-suppressed ex-
clamation, and-stood staring hard at. something on
ahead.

' Dern my skin 1' said he slowly and softly, as I
came up to him. He was a slow-spoken Yankee.
' Say, look there ! Don't it beat h— 11 f

In the direction indicated, partly hidden by the
scant foliage of a thorn-tree, a man was sitting
on a yellow portmanteau reading a book. The
sight was unusual, and it brought the unemotional
Yankee to a standstill and set us both smiling,
The man was dressed in a sort of clerk's everyday
get-up, even to the bowler hat, and as he sat there he
held overhead an old black sUk umbrella to protect
him from such of the sun's rays as penetrated the
thorn-bush. He must have become conscious of
the presence of Hfe by the subtle instinct which we
all know and can't explain, for almost immediately
he raised his glance and looked us straight in the
eyes. He rose and came towards us, laying aside
the umbrella, but keeping his place in the book.

The scene was too ludicrous not to provoke a
smUe, and the young fellow — he could not have been
above twenty-three — mistaking its import, raised
his hat politely and wished us ' good-afternoon,'

He spoke English, but with a strong German
accent, and his dress, his open manner, his ready
smiles, and, above all, his politeness, proclaimed

3—2

36 Soltke

him very mucli a stranger to those parts. Key
murmured a line from a compatriot : ' Green pfeas
has come to market, and vegetables is riz.'

' You have come mit der waggons ? You make
der transport 1 Not V he asked us, following up
the usual formula.

We told him it was so, and that we were for the
fields, and reckoned to reach Matalha by sun-up.
He too, he said, was going to the gold-fields, and
would be a prospector ; he was just waiting for his
' boy,' who had gone back for something he had
forgotten at the last place. He was going to walk
to Moodie's, he said. He ' did make mit one
transporter a contract to come by waggons ; but it
was a woman mit two childs what was leave behind,
and dere was no more waggons, so he wiQ walk. It
was good to walk to make him strong for de prospect.
Oh yes !'

We were used to meeting all sorts on the road,
and they were pretty well all inclined to talk ; but
this one was so fuU it just bubbled out of him, and
in his broken English he got off question on ques-
tion, between times imparting scraps of information
about himself and his hopes. He was clearly in
earnest about his future, and he was so .utterly
unpractical, so hopelessly astray in his view of
everything, that one could not but feel kindly
towards him. We chatted with him untU our

Soltke 37

waggons came up, when he again politely raised
his hat as he said good-bye to us, and offered many
thanks for the information about the road. As we
moved on with the waggons, he turned to look
down the road by which we had come, and said,
apparently as an afterthought :

' You haf seen my " boy " perhaps 1 Not ? No !
Soh ! Good-bye — yes, good-bye !'

It does not take long for daylight to glide
through dusk into darkness in the bush veld in
South Africa, and even these few minutes spent in
conversation had seen the light begin to fade from
the sky as the sun disappeared. The road was
good and clear of rocks and stumps, so we hopped
onto the most comfortable waggon, and talked
while the oxen plodded slowly along.

We had quite a large party that trip, for, besides
Gowan and myself, who owned the waggons, we
had three traders from Swazie country — old friends
of ours who had come down to Delagoa to buy
goods. We had all arranged to stand in together
in a big venture of running loads through Swazie-
land to the gold-fields later on in the season ; in
fact, the trip we were then making was more or
less a trial one to see how the land lay, and how
much we could venture in the big coup.

Gowan, the other transport-rider, and I always
travelled together. We were not partners exactly,

38 Soltke

but in a country like that it was good to have
a friend, and we understood each other. There
were no two .ways about him ; he was a white
man through and through. The two Mackays
were brothers ; they had left Scotland some
years before to join a farming scheipe 'suit-
able for gentlemen's sons with a little capital/ as
the circular and advertisements said. They had
given it best, however, and gone trading long
before I met them. The other member of our
party was the one with whom I had been walking.
He was an American, and had been everything and
everywhere, most lately a trader in Swazie country.
We generally called him the Judge.

As the waggons rumbled along Key was giving
a more or less accurate account of our conversation
with the stranger.

It was very amusing, even more amusing than
the original, for I am bound to say that with him a
story did not suffer in the telling. It was only
Go wan who didn't seem to see anything to laugh
at in the affair. He sat there dangling his legs
over the buck-rails, chewing a long grass stalk,
and humming all out of tune. He had a habit of
doing that, growling with it. Presently, as conver-
sation flagged, the tune got worse and his growling
took the shape of a reference to 'giving a poor
devU a lift.'

Soltke 39

I frankly confessed that I simply had not
thought of it, and that was all. As, however,
Gowan continued growling about ' beastly shame '
and 'poor devil of a greenhorn,' etc., Key answered
dryly :

' Waal, I did think of it ; but, first place, they
ain't my waggons '

Gowan grunted out, ' Dam rot !'

' And second place,' continued Key placidly,
' considerin' the kind o' cargo you've got aboard,
and where it's going to, I didn't reckon you wanted
any passengers I'

' I don't want passengers,' said Gowan gloomily ;

' but any d d fool knows that that fellow '11

never see food or blankets or " boy " again on the
face of God's earth. Kaffir carriers don't forget
things at outspans. Noy not any that I've seen,
and I've seen a good few.'

'Old Gowan took up the grass stem again, and
chewed and tugged at it, and made occasional kicks
at passing bushes, by way of showing a general
and emphatic disapproval. No one said anything ;
it was Gowan's way to growl at everything, and
nobody ever took much notice. He was the most
good-natured, kindly old growler that ever lived'.
He growled as some sturdy old dogs do when you
pat them — they like it.

In this particular case, of course, he had reason.

40 Soltke

It is not that we were inhospitable or unfeeling,
but years of roughing it had, I suppose, dulled our
impressions of the first night alone in the veld,
and we had not seen it as Gowan did. Life of the
sort we led, no doubt, develops the sterling good
qualities of one's nature, but quick sympathy and
its kindred delicate traits are rather growths of re-
finement and quiet, and it betrayed no real want of
feeling that we had not taken Gowan's view, '

There could be no doubt, of course, that the
Kaffir boy had bolted with the blankets and food,
for we had noticed that the young German had-
nothing left when we saw him but that yellow
portmanteau, and our knowledge of the Delagoa
Bay ' boy ' forbade acceptance of the theory that
he had gone empty-handed.

We rumbled heavily along for a bit, and after a
while Gowan resumed, in a tone of deeper grumbling
and more surly dissatisfaction than before :

' Like as not the silly, young fool '11 lose himself
looking for water, and. die in the Bush, like that
one Joe Roberts brought up last season. Why, I
remember when '

' Grave o' the Prophet !' exclaimed Robbie, start-
ing up in mock alarm ; ' he's going to tell us that
dismal yarn about the parson chap who hunted
beetles, and was found after a week's search with
two of his most valuable specimens feeding on his

Sokke 41

eyes. Skip, sonnie, skip ! and fetch up your German
friend 'fore the old man gets under way.'

Key dropped off the buck-rails, as the drivers
shouted their ' Aanhouws ' to the cattle to give
them a breather, kicked his legs loose a bit, dusted
down his trousers quietly, and, smiling good-
humouredly at Gowan, ' guessed it was better
business to hump that gripsack a mile or two than
listen to old Yokeskey's prayers.' That was his ir-
reverent way of alluding to Gowan's calling of trans-
port-rider — a yokeskey being part of the trek gear.
Key and I set out together at a brisk pace, well
knowing how poor was our chance of catching up
to the waggons again before the midnights outspan.

Key, who was always tickled by Gowan's
growling tones, remarked after we had walked for
some minutes : -

'"Sling hell like a nigger parson, you know, can
the old 'un, but soft and harmless as a woman.'

After half an hour's brisk walking, we caught
the unsteady flicker of a fire through the straggling
thorns, and we found our friend sitting tailorwise
before it, making vigorous but futile attempts to
wisp aside the smoke that would go his way. His
look of mild curiosity at the sound of our voices
wakened up into welcome when he recognised us,
and he at once became interested in the reason of
our return.

42 Soltke

' You haf lose something — not II, too, will
look for you,' he said, jumping up eagerly ; but we
reassured him on that point, and inquired in turn
whether his 'boy' had returned, and cross-ques-
tioned him as to the when and wherefore of his
leaving.

The Kaffir-bearer, he said, had left him that
morning during the after-breakfast trek.

' Ten hours gone, by Jimmie 1' muttered the
Judge.

' And you have waited here since then ?' I asked.

' Oh yes, yes ! I read to learn de English. It

is-

' Had any scoff 1'

'Please?'

' Had any grub — anything to eat or drink f
explained Key, illustrating his meaning by graphic
touches on mouth and belt.

'No, no; I am not hunger. Also it is good
that I eat not. It make me use for the prospect'

Key smUed gently, and said, with a quaint
judicial air :

' Waal, I don't know as that's quite necessary ;
but ef you kin stick it out tiU that nigger o' yours
comes back, I guess you'll do for most any camp
you'll strike in this country. Say ! Has he got
the blankets 1 Yes I And the grub ? So ! An'
■ — er — mebbe you didn't give him money as well V

Soltke 43

' I haf give him one pound to pay the passport,
which he forgot. He say policeman will take him
if he shows not the ticket. But he will come bring
to me the change. He is ein goot boy, and he
speaken ^English feul goot ; but perhaps something
can happen, and that policemaii haf take him, I
think.' ;

Even in a new-comer such credulity was a reve-
lation. I could not help i^miling, but the Judge's
clear-cut, impassive features never changed ; only,
at the mention of the ' boy's ' lingual accomplish-
ments, he winked solemnly at me.

The Judge brought matters to a practical issue
by telling our friend that he ' had much better
wait at our waggons for the good boy that speaks
English so well.'

'It ain't,' said Key, 'es if he couldn't, find you.
A Kaffir kin find you most anywhere if he wants
to — 'specially them English-speakin' ones,' he added,
with a twinkle in his eyes.

Key did not wEiit for any reply, but turned the
' yaller gripsack ' over and looked at the name,
' Adolf Soltk^,' painted in big white letters.

' Your name ?' he asked in chaff, rather than that
he doubted it.

' My name, yes. Soltkd — Adolf Soltkd — coom
from Germany, but in der colonic I was leetle
times.'

44 Soltke

'Took you for Amurrikan,' said the Judge,
without a vestige of a smile.

I looked hastily at Soltk^, feeling that his broken,
halting English should have protected him from
such outrageous fooling, but my solicitude was
misplaced. Soltkd calmly, but firmly, disclaimed
aU knowledge .of America, and repeated that he
was a German.

Key shouldered the portmanteau with the curt
suggestion, ' Waal, let's git !' and as our friend —
except by his protestations of gratitude and wild
endeavours to carry the whole of the kit himself —
offered no hindrance to the proposed scheme, we
marched along briskly to overtake the waggons.

A bullock- waggon is a slow one to travel with, but
a bad one to catch, as anyone knows who has tried
it ; and it was close on midnight when, tired and
dusty, we came suddenly on the waggons out-
spanned in a small opening in the Bush.

The silence was absolutely ghostly, except when
now and then a bullock would give a big long
sigh, or a sappy stick in the fire would crack and
hiss.

Gowan was sitting over the fire on a three-legged
rough-wood stool, head in hands and elbows on
knees, with the odd jets of flame lighting up his
solemn old face a,nd shaggy brown beard. The
others had turned in. He stood up slowly as we

Soltke 45

came up and extended a hand to Soltk^, saying
baldly :

' How are ye ?'

Our friend took the inquiry in a literal sense,
and was engaged in answering it, when Gowan cut
in with a remark that it was ' time to be in bed,'
and, accepting his own hint,~he hooked his finger
in the ' reimpje ' of his camp-stool and strolled off
to where his blankets were already spread under
one of the waggons.

As he turned, he pointed with his foot to the fire,
growling out that there was a billy of tea and some
stew warmed up ' for him ' (looking back at Soltk^),
and adding, ' Bread's in the grub-box. 'Night 1'
he turned in.

It was just like him to remember these things,
for in our routine there was as a rule no eating
during the night outspan. It was breakfast after
the morning trek, and supper before the evening
one. Gowan had also thrown out a couple of
blankets, and between us we made up pretty
well for the lost bedding ; so Soltkd was installed
as one of the party. It says something for him
that, in spite of our eight-mile walk and that
yellow portmanteau, the verdict under our waggons
that night was : ' Seems a decent sort, after all,
and it would ha' been a bit rough to leave him to
shift for himself.'

46 Soltke

Soltk^'s stupendous greenness should have dis-
armed chaff ; and, indeed, at first we all felt that
fooling him was like misleading a child : there was
no fun to be got out of it. He believed anything
that was told him. He accepted literally those
palpable exaggerations which are not expected or
wanted to be believed. He took for gospel the
account of the Munchausen of the Bush-veld who
told how his team of donkeys had been disturbed
by a lion during the early morning trek, and how,
to his infinite surprise and alarm, he found that the
savage brute had actually eaten his way into one
donkey's place, and when day broke was found
still pulling in the team, to the great dismay of the
other members. He was anxious to make a per-
sonal experiment of the efficacy of dew taken off a
buUock's horn, which we had recommended as an
infallible snake charm. At considerable risk he
had secured the dew, and the scene of Soltk^'s
struggling with the bewildered bullock at early
dawn one morning was one to be remembered.
However, he pledged himself not to carry the ex-
periment further without the assistance of one of
us, and a day or two later we removed immediate
risk by losing his phial of dew. I am convinced
that he would have tried the experiment on any
snake he might have met, and with absolute con-
fidence as to the result.

Soltke 47

His mind was such as one would expect in a
child who had known neither mental nor physical
fear. He seemed absolutely void, not only of
personal knowledge of evil, but even of that cogni-
zance of its existence which shows itself in a dispo-
sition to seek corroborative evidence, to consult
probabilities, and to inquire into motives. I am
convinced that Soltk^ never questioned a motive in
his life, nor ever hesitated to accept as a fact any-
thing told in apparent seriousness. Irony and
sarcasm were to him as to a child or a savage. He
was intensely literal, single-minded and direct, and
perfectly fearless in thought, word or act. Such a
disposition in a child would have been charming:
In a weU-set-up, active young man of three-and-
twenty or so it was embarrassing. Donald Mackay,
who was of a choleric disposition, complained a day
or two after Soltke joined us that ' he was blanked
if he could blank well stand it. Why, that morn-
ing, when he was about to gi'e one o' the boys a
lambastin', the kiddie turns white as a girl wi' the
first swear and a sight of the sjambok, an' Aa teU
ye, mon, Aa was nigh to bustin' wi' a' the drawing-
room blether Aa was gettin' off.' It was quite
true. Soltkd was not shocked nor affecting to be
shocked at the vigorous language he heard ; he
was simply unlearned in it, and shrank as a girl
might from the outburst of violence.

48 Soltk^

Gradually the feeling of strangeness wore off,
and the restraint which the new presence had
imposed was no longer felt except on odd occasions.
On our side, we chaffed and shook him up, partly
on this impulse of the time, and partly with good-
natured intent to make him better fitted to take
care of himself among the crowd with whom he
would mix later on. On his side, he had never
felt restraint, and of course rapidly became familiar
with us and our ways, and seemed thoroughly to
enjoy the chaff and his initiation into the system of
good-humoured imposture. With aU his green-
ness, he was no fool ; in fact, he was in odd, un-
expected ways remarkably shrewd and quick, as he
often showed in conversation. He was, moreover, a
poor subject for practical jokes, and several of the
stock kind recoiled on the perpetrators, because, as
I have said, he did not know what fear was.

When a notorious practical joker named Evans,
with whom we travelled in company for a couple
of days, ' put up ' the lion scare on Soltke, it didn't
come off. He asked our young friend to dine at
his waggons on the other side of a dry donga, and,
after telling the most thrilling lion yarns aU the
evening, left Soltk6 to walk back alone, while he
slipped off to waylay him at the darkest and deepest
part of the donga. There was the rustle of bushes
and sudden roar which had so often played havoc

Soltke 49

before ; but Soltk^ only stepped back, and lugged
put in unfamiliar fashion a long revolver wbich no
one knew lie carried. Ignoring the fact that a lion
could have half eaten him in the time expended,
Soltk^ calmly cocked the weapon, and, to the terror
of his late host, poured all six barrels into the bush
from which the noise had come. He then retreated
quietly out of the donga to where we, hearing the
shots and Evans's shouts of terror, had run down to
see what was up. Soltk^ was excited, but quiet,
and the noise of the reports had evidently pre-
vented him from detecting the man's voice. He
said :

' It was something what make " Har-r-r- !'' by
me, and I shoot ; but I haf no more cartridge.'

We did not see Evans again for some months.
The story of Soltk^'s lion made the road too hot for
him that winter.

When we told Soltke the real facts, his face was
a study. For some days he was very quiet and
thoughtful ; he was completely puzzled, and for the
life of him could not imagine the motive that had
actuated Evans ; nor could he, on the other hand,
realize the possibility of anyone acting differently
from the way in which he had done.

Before this there had been some horseplay when
we were crossing the Komatie Eiver. The stream
was running strong, and was then from four to five

4 .

50 Soltke

feet deep at the drift ; and, although it was known
to be full of crocodiles, there was little or no danger
at the regular crqssing. However, Key had primed
Soltkd with some gorgeous stories of hairbreadth
escapes, intending to play a trick on him in the
river.

' It is quite a common thing for men to be carried
off here,' said the Judge ; ' but white men are very
seldom killed — not more than four or five a year —
because of the boots.'

' Boots I' exclaimed Soltk^ inquisitively.

' Yes,' said Key, in half-absent tones. ' Ef you
kick properly, no croc' can stand it.'

Soltk^ complained excitedly, and as though he
had suffered gross injustice, that no one had told
him this interesting phase of life on the road ; but
Key snubbed hiin, telling him that men didn't
speak much of such matters, as it gave the im-
pression of bragging.

Soltk4 who was above all things desirous of
conforming with the etiquette of the road, asked
no more questions ; but Key, later on in the
day, affecting to relent a little, got Soltk^ to sit
straddle-legs on the pole of one of the waggons,
and there, under his directions, practise kicking
crocodiles.

The crossing was ttfo difficult for one span of
oxen, so we double-spanned, and put all hands on

Soltke 5 1

with "whips and sjamboks along the thirty oxen, to
whack and shout until we got through.

Key placed himself behind Soltk^ and, just when
the excitement was greatest, with his long whip-
stick and lash he made a loop, in which he managed
to enclose Soltke's legs. One jerk took him clean
off his feet, and down-stream he went, floundering
and kicking for dear life, for he believed a crocodile
had him. His kicking when he was head down-
wards and his legs were free of the water was
remarkable. There were roars of laughter from
everyone, as Key had passed the word along ; but
presently there was a lull, and the niggers stopped
laughing and felt the joke fall flat, when Soltke,
utterly unconscious of the real cause of his upset,
waded deliberately back as soon as he recovered his
feet, and, pale but undaunted, took his place,
sjambok in hand, the same as before.

Among transport-riders the condition of the
Berg — as the spurs of the long Drakensberg range
of mountains are called colloquially — is always a
fruitful topic of conversation. The Berg at Spitz
Kop is worse than at any other point, I believe,
and Soltke exhibited a growing interest in this
much-discussed feature of the road. His enthusi-
astic nature led him here into all sorts of specula-
tions about it, which were highly amusing to us ;
and the Judge egged poor Soltk^ on and crammed

4—2

52 Soltke

him so that he undertook in our interest to devise
some method for ascending this awful Berg
whereby the then terribles risks to life and property
would be minimized, if not entirely removed. The
position, as Key explained it, was this : There was
a long, steep hill to be surrnounted, the grade of
which varied between 30° and vertical, but the
crowning difificulty lay in the 'shoot.' Here it
was an open question whether the hiU did not
actually overhang ; so steep was it, in fact, that it
was not an uncommon occurrence for the front oxen
to slip as they gained the summit, and faU back
into the waggon, possibly killing both leader and
driver, and doing infinite damage to the loads.
Soltk6 faced this problem brimful of confidence in
the subject and himself. After hours of keen dis-
cussion and dOigent experiments, Soltkd produced
his plan. It was a system of endless rope on guides
and puUeys, so arranged that by a top anchorage
on the summit of this hill both oxen and driver
would be secure. Soltke was triumphant, but Key
extricated himself temporarily by pointing out that,
as we had not enough rope to try the scheme, we
would have to take the old roundabout road and
leave the 'shoot' for the next trip.

The joking with Soltke, as I have said, at times
degenerated into common horseplay, and this led
to the only unpleasantness we had. The younger

Soltke 53

Mackay — Eobbie — was a quiet, humorous, and
most gentle-natured fellow, an immense favourite
with everybody.

One night we were all standing round the fire,
when something occurred which nobody ever
seemed able to explain. Soltke had mislaid his
pipe, and, thinking he had seen Robbie take it,
asked him for it back. Robbie denied , all know-
Ijedge, and Soltkd, deeming it but another practical

joke, said, 'I saw you taking it, you ,' using a

term which he, poor chap, had picked up without
knowing the meaning, a term which among white
men never ' passes unnoticed. Robbie's Scotch
blood was aflame, afid before one of us could stir,
before he himself could think of the allowances to
be made, before the word was well said, a heavy
right-hander across the mouth dropped Soltkd back
against the waggon. Blank amazement and some-
thing like consternation marked every face, but
none was so utterly taken aback as poor Soltk^,
who would have suffered anything rather than in-
flict pain upon a felloW-being. He only said,
' Robbie, wkat haf I say ? I do not understand,'
and, looking white and miserable, walked quietly
off to his blankets and turned in. To us it was
as though a girl, a child, had been struck, and no
one felt this more than Robbie himself, as soon as
he saw that the insult was not intentional. The

54 Soltke

look on Soltk^'s face was that of a stricken woman,
a look of dull, unmerited pain. He was not cowed
— just dazed and hurt, but inexpressibly hurt.
You wUl see men blink and shuffle under that look
in a woman's face. You will see a master quail
before it in a servant. You will see White go down
before it in Black ; for it is God's own weapon in
the hands of helpless right. As long as I live I
shall remember that look. I felt as though / had
done it !

We trekked as usual next morning at about
three o'clock, and it must have been some time in
the dark hours of the early trek that Eobbie spoke
to Soltk^. Whatever it was he said, it relieved the
awkwardness, and restored Soltke to something of
his old self ; but he was never quite the same again,
and for some days we did not get over the look in
his eyes and the feeling of guiltiness it left in us.

Eobbie did not speak of that early morning
scene, but later in the day remarked incontinently :

' By God ! he is white, is Soltkd — white all
through.' .

Soltkd kept a diary, and kept it with the most
marvellous fidelity and unflagging industry, and
he also learned to shoot, and shot cockyoUy birds
occasionally, and was pleased to know their sport-
ing and scientific names. There is a sort of bastard
cockatoo in those parts which is commonly known

Soltke 55

as the ' G-o way ' bird, on account of its cry, which
closely resembles these words, and of a habit it is
supposed to have of warning game of the approach of
man. In Soltkd's diary there should be an elaborate
essay on the ancestry and personal habits of this bird,
and the wonderful traditions of its family. He
took these things down faithfully and laboriously
from the Judge's own lips. The Judge had a
copious mythology. Poor Soltk^ tried to stuff
some of his dicky-birds, labelling them with such
names as Key could always supply at a moment's
notice. The result was unpleasant, as Soltke took
to bestowing these ill-preserved relics in the side-
" pockets of the tents, in the waggon-boxes, and in
a dozen other unlikely spots. It was only now and
then that we could actually find them ; but there
was a constant suggestion of their proximity, never-
theless.

We took to calling Soltk^ the Professor, as it
was a title which, we told him, seemed better to
suggest an aU-round. efficiency than any other we
could think of, and therefore suited him more than
such purely departmental distinctions as Leather-
stocking, the Engineer, or the Ornithologist.

I had forgotten to say that there was one thing
on which we did not chaff poor Soltke. He played
the zither. I do not know if he played it well or
not, for he was the only one whom I have heard

56 Soltke

play that instrument. To us, lying round a bright
thornwood fire, in which the big logs burnt into
solid glowing coals— to us, who lay back smoking
or gazing up into the infinite depths of silent,
cloudless sky, watching millions and millions of
stars twinkling busily and noiselessly down at us,
the music was a kind of dream.

As Soltk^ sat in the glow of the fire, and the
unsteady flicker of shooting and dying flanles threw
lights and shadows on his face, it sometimes looked
as though he was not quite what we took him for.
His was a bright, intelligent face, lit up by quick,
eager blue eyes; in fact, though it was a thing
that we took no stock in, Soltke was really a very
good-looking boy, and one naturally thought of
him as some ' mother's hope and pride ' ; and the
look of worry and grief that I sometimes fancied I
saw was put down to home-sickness brought out
by music. However good or bad his music was,
he seemed to feel it, and we — well, we never
talked much after he began to play ; and when he
stopped, we generally knocked our pipes out with
a sort of half-sigh, and turned in for the night. It
used to make me think of home as I remembered it
when I was still externally respectable — ^before I
took to flannel shirts and moleskins, and ways that
were not home ways ; and I expect the others felt
that too.

Soltke ^J

We had passed the Crocodile River and the belt
of ' Tsetse Fly ' country. We had passed Josikulus,
where Hart was murdered by the niggers, and we
told Soltk^ the story of the dead man's sentry-go.
We passed Ship Mountain, and pointed out the
bush that hid the haunted cave, and told him the
weird tradition of the old witch-doctor imprisoned
by the rock slide, handling ^till as a skeleton the
implements of magic he used in life.

All these things were noted in Soltk^'s volumi-
nous diary ; and a curious medley, it must have
containedy with the embroidered facings of Key
and the solid square facts of Gowan intermingled
with the author's own original remarks and reflec-
tions. Soltk^, to do him justice, was clearly a
person of some purpose. He had placed before
himself an ideal, and he never lost sight of it. He
was eternally qualifying for that pursuit which he
called ' de prospect.' He would eat from choice the
charred and blackened crust of an overbaked loaf
or a steak that had slipped the gridiron and got
well sanded ; he also seemed to prefer the dre^s
of the coffee billy, which he swallowed black and un-
sweetened; he scorned to use a fork; and he always
slept on the lumpiest ground ; and all this was to
fit him fot the hardships and emergencies he
promised himself as a full-blown pros.pector. His
^jEtgeTness for knowledge of the flora and fauna was

58 Soltke

equally remarkable : he had compiled a sort of
dictionary of plants and animals, describing their
virtues, medicinal or culinary, and I am sure that
towards the end of our trip Soltk^ would have set
out into the Bush with a light heart, armed only
with his book, and fortified by a confidence which
was absolutely phenomenal.

Looking back on it all, it seems a mean shame
ever to have played on his credulity ; and, indeed,
most of us were, even at this time, keenly alive
to this ; but there were times when his eager
questioning and intense earnestness about common-
place trifles made temptation irresistible, and
seemed even to inspire one with ridiculous notions
suited to Soltk^'s undiscriminating appetite.

It was on a Sunday morning that we came in
sight of Pretorius Kop — a solitary sugar-loaf hiU
— and we lay by as usual during the hours of day-
light. We knew it was Sunday, because Soltk^
had said so, and because we saw him in the early
morning kneeling in the shadow of a big tree
a few yards from the waggons, Prayer -book in
hand, absorbedly following the prayers of the Mass.
He was a Eoman Catholic, and was as uncom-
promisingly particular in observing the smallest
detail of his Church's ritual and teaching as he was
by nature tolerant of the shortcomings of others.
In the course of the morning's short excursion

Soltke 59

Soltk6 had come across one of those crawling
creatures known to children as 'thousand-legs,'
the common, harmless millepede. It was the first
he had ever seen, and words failed him in his
quest for information. Key was the first he met
on his return, and the Judge told him solemnly
that the insect in question was ' that well-known
and most ferocious of reptiles, the viper.' During
breakfast Soltkd absorbed whole volumes of infor-
mation about this ' wiper ' — its habits and uses ;
and as soon as the meal was over he betook him-
self to the side-pocket of the tent waggon, where
the beloved diary was kept, and commenced to
write up the new discovery. We were all spread
about enjoying the morning smoke, or taking it easy
in other ways. We had forgotten Soltk^, but
presently his face popped out, wearing a most
worried, earnest, and intense expression.

' Joodge !' he called, ' Joodge, how vos dot
wiper shpell V

Key dictated calmly :

' W-h-y-p-e-r, whyper,' and Soltke with infinite
pains put it down. But we heard him a moment
later from his place in the tent of the waggon
murmuring :

' Lieber Himmel ! dot vos un oogly name.'

He kept his diary in English, and many a per-
spiring hour did he spend in his struggles with our

6o Soltke

language ; but he never quailed once, never even
slackened, for he said it was ' goot to make him
friends mit der English, and he can talk him when
he shall coom on der prospect.'

Soltk^ could hardly have taken down the name
of this new wonder, when the sight of a blue jay
flying past — one marvellous blaze of gorgeous
colour as its shiny feathers caught the sunlight —
sent him into a perfect paroxysm of excitement.
He had seen the honeysuekers, and knew them in
the diary as ' birds of Paradise '; he knew the
ordinary or cockyolly bird as the small * pheasant
of Capricorn'; he had shot dicky-birds by the
dozen and stufied them, and their noxious odours
seemed to add zest to his ornithological pursuits ;
but he had never seen, never dreamed of, anything
like this. For one spellbound moment Soltke
watched the bird sail by, and then gasped out :

' Gott in Himmel I what woss dat ? Christnacht,
be shtill, und I shot him.'

Diary, pen, ink and blotter were thrust aside,
and Soltk6 scrambled for the gun. We turned our
backs on him to watch the bird. Soltk^ jumped
from the waggon. The report of the two barrels
was so loud and close that it made us duck ; but
the blue jay sat unmoved.

There was a curious silence that made several of
us look round together. The gun had fallen, and

Soltke 6t

Soltk^ was standing above it, rigid and ghastly
white, with one hand gripping a burnt and blood-
spattered tear in his right leg. As we sprang to
him open-armed he seemed just to sway gently
towards us with closed eyes and a soft murmur of
words in his own tongue. It sounded like a
prayer.

I think he fainted then ; but we were never sure,
as he was always so stiU with . it all that one
couldn't tell at times whether he was dead or alive.
The medicines we had, and the remedies we knew,
did not run to gunshot wounds and broken legs,
but we made shift to fix him up somehow with a
rough ligament.

It was here that Key came ia. Quiet and self-
possessed, firm and kind, he cut away the burnt,
torn clothing. He washed out the ragged, black-
ened wound ; he tried the leg, and told us it was
fractured — shattered — and would have to come off".
And Soltk^ lay there, under the big tree, on a
blanket spread on a heap of grass, as white as
alabaster and as still, while we watched silently
beside him, fanning him with small green boughs,
and keeping ofi" the flies.

Donald Mackay had started off" at once for a
doctor ; but we knew that, with the best luck in
finding^him, and riding day and night, it must be
over two days before we could get him down there.

62 Soltke

Robbie went with his brother to the nearest
waggons a few miles on ahead, where Donald raised
a horse and went on alone on his long ride for help.
Eobbie came back with a few things that we hoped
would help a little, and then we settled down to
watch in silence the awful race between ebbing
life and coming help.

Through the hot, long, quiet day we watched
and tended him, and so on into the cool of the
evening. We could do nothing, really; but it
seemed to please him and us to whisk away the
jflies, and say a word of cheer to him, or now and
then to shift the cotton sheet that covered him.
When the stars came out, and the soft cool feel of
night grew up around, and the ruddy flicker of the
fire worked its magic on the encampment, changing
and beautifying everything with sudden lights and
weird shadows ; when the cattle were tied up to the
yokes, and one by one lay down to sleep with great
restful, deep-drawn sighs; when there were no
sounds but the steady chewing of the cud and the
occasional distant howl of a hyena or the sharp,
unreal laugh of the jackal — ^then did we really
seem to settle down to the business of waiting.

Now and then, perhaps three or four times in
the night, Soltk^ asked for water ; once or twice
towards morning he sighed a suppressed tired sigh ;
but not a word of complaint, not a sign of im-

Soltke 63

patience, not one evidence of the torture he was
ienduring, escaped him. When morning came,
cool and fragrant, and the blue smoke of the
camp-fire curled up straight and clean into the
pure air, he was as quiet and uncomplaining still,
though not for one second had his eyes closed nor
the deadly numbing pain ceased its ache.

Soltk^ seemed to me to look younger than ever,
though terribly white and fagged. His eyes looked
blue and brave and trustful — childishly trustful^
as ever, and he alone, of all the party, did not keep
looking towards the west for the return of Donald
Mackay and his .charge.

All that day we watched and waited, and on
through another slow and silent night ; but we
could see then that Soltk^ could not last out much
longer without a doctor's help, and that his chance
was becoming a poor one.

It must have been about three in the morning
when, lying flat on my back, looking up into the
wonderful maze of stars that spatters our southern
sky, I heard or felt the tiniest tap, tap, tap under
my head. I shot up with the cry of, * There's
Donald at last I'

We were all up and listening, but could hear
nothing when standing, of course. However, there
was no mistake, and after five minutes we could
hear on the cool, clear^ still air the footfall of a

64 Soltke

horse— one horse, as we all remarked with an awful
heart-sinking.

Two of us — Key and I — went on to meet the
horseman, and in a few minutes came upon Donald
leading a horse, upon which, by the aid of a prop-
ping arm, was balanced a man whom we aU knew
— only too well.

In a breath Donald told us that he had sent on
from the first camp for the district surgeon, but,
chancing on Doc Monroe, had packed him on the
horse and come back with him as a makeshift.
Munroe was a quack chemist of morose and brutal
character, and a drunkard with it. His moral
status might be gauged by the fact that no patient
among those who knew him personally or by re-
pute ever approached him professionally except
upon the contract system — so much the job, pay-
ment on delivery, cured. He had a certain repute
for ability. God knows how it was earned,-
for he had killed more men than any other
agency in the country ; but I believe that his
brutal and sardonic indifference to public opinion,
his fiendish hints that there was no accident about
the deaths of his patients, and that ' those who
want Doc Munroe can pay for him, by G — d !' in-
spired a weird dread which, irrationally, perhaps,
yet not unnaturally, begot a sort of blind awed
belief in the man's ability.

Soltke 65

Men hardly stricken have been known to sit on
the bar-step and wait while Doc, having drunk
himself drunk, would drink himself sober, and
then, with implicit faith, swallow down mixtures
to which the bloodshot eyes and the trembling
hands of the Doc added the interest of a blind
gamble.

By the uncertain light of the stars I had not
recognised him, until Key, who was a few paces in
front, said softly :

' It's Doc Munroe — dead drunk !'

Dobald was utterly worn out, and wild with
despair. Doc had been drunk when he found him,
but (as Donald said) he was always that, and he
had hoped that a forty-mile ride would sober him.
However, it seems that twice on the road he had
got liquor, and the second time, when Donald had
caught him and taken it away, he had sat down by
the roadside stolid and immovable until the liquor
was returned to him.

There were reasons why we bottled up our rage
and treated the Doc with a show of civUity, and
even conciliatory respect. We knew, firstly, that
he had his instruments, and that only he could
use them ; and, secondly, that, however drunk he
might be, he never lost his senses until delirium
set in ; and, moreover, that he was intensely sus-
picious of ofience when in this state, and if once

5

66 Soltke

huffed, was indifferent to prayers and threats alike.
The look on Gowan's face was positively murderous
when he saw in what manner our waiting was
rewarded. I am sure he would readily have killed
Munroe at that moment.

Poor Soltk^ showed his first signs of anxiety
then, and we had to make what excuses we could —
the want of light, first of all, - and then the long
ride — to account for the doctor's not seeing him
now that he had come. But the hours went by,
the last chance was ebbing away, and we could do
nothing — absolutely nothing — with the man.

We tried him with everything. We gave him
black coffee — he wouldn't touch it ; we tried soup
— he kicked it over ; food, sleep, a bath — every-
thing was rejected with a sullen and stolid shake
of the head, and the one word ' W'isky.' That we
would not give. For four mortal hours the man
lay sullenly by the waggon on a pile of blankets,
and only the one word passed his lips. We dared not
give him more — ^it would have destroyed our only
chance ; and without liquor he would not budge.

Day was well advanced when Munroe stood up
quietly, and walked over to where Gowan stood
beside , his waggon. I suspected that the Doc had
noticed Gowan's look when he came into camp
with us, and now it was clear that he had.

'You think I'm drunk,' said Munroe, with a

Soltke 67

malignant sneer. ' I saw you look at me when I

got off that d d horse ! You think I'm drunk,

do you V

Gowan looked him steadily in the eyes, but made
no answer, and Doc resumed :

' Ate you going to give me that whisky T

Again no answer ; but I walked nearer, as I
could see Gowan's hands close and go back, and his
chest came up with hard breathing.

' Are — you — going — to — give — me — that —
whisky V asked Munroe again, slowly and deliber-
ately.

' No !' roared Gowan, with a tiger-like spring at
the other man ; ' I'll see you in heU first !'

I caught Gowan's uplifted arm, but Munroe
never flinched, and, pulling himself together with
something of a shake, he said in a perfectly sober,
even tone and with diabolical malevolence :

' Then I'll see your friend dead and rotten before
I stir a hand to help him ;' and with that he
marched back to the blankets and lay down again.

An hour passed, and he never stirred a finger —
never even blinked his staring eyes. Then the
Mackays, Key, and I held a council, and decided to
give him the liquor as a last — a truly forlorn —
hope. It was left to me to see him, and I went
oyer bottle and glass in hand.

He wouldn't touch it.

5—2

68 Soltke

I argued, begged, and prayed ; but it had no
effect whatever. He just lay there, resting on one
arm, with the cruel, shallow glitter in his eyes that
one sees in those of wild beasts. I returned to the
others, and we had another talk, and then I offered
him money — a price : all that we could give !
That fetched him. He sat up, and looked at me
for about a minute, and then said, shaking with
hate :

' Your liquor I won't touch. Your money won't
buy me. As soon as it's cool enough to move, I
go back ; and if you've ever heard of Doc Munroe,
you'U take that for a last answer.'

That was a facer, and when I went back and
told the others, opinions were divided as to what
to do. Gowan and Key were for the rifle cure.
If he wouldn't operate, shoot him !

But we urged another — a last — delay, say tiQ
noon ; and they gave way, but warned us it would
be useless.

The heat that day was awful. No breeze, no
relief— only dead, oppressive heat, reflected to
and fro the steel-blue sky and the hard-baked
earth.

The fires were out — we had cooked nothing that
day — ^^and the camp looked dead and deserted.
One or more of us would always be with Soltk^ ;
the others would be lying in the shadow of a tree

Soltke 69

or under a waggon. We had some faint hope that
the district surgeon would turn up, but not before
the- morrow, and, knowing Soltk^'s condition, that
seemed useless, so that our only real chance was
with Munroe.

As we lay there, dismally and hopelessly waiting,
we were suddenly startled by a most peculiar and
unnatural bark. The two dogs also jumped up and
ran out on to the road. We could see nothing
except that Munroe had gone. The noise was
repeated, and the dogs growled, and every hair
stood up on their backs.

' Great God ! look there !' came from Donald.

Following his glance, we saw, low down amongst
the thick buflfalo grass, the wild, haggard face of
Doc Munroe. His shock red hair half covered his
eyes, which glittered and glared like a lioness's. As
we stood he barked again, and made a jump out
to the margin of the grass. He was mad — stark,
staring mad — with delirium tremens ! In one of
his hands, half hidden by the grass, we could see
a Bushman's friend, and the bright blade seemed
to catch an ugly gleam from the man's eyes and
reflect it malevolently back on us.

Munroe was a big man, and, although ruined in
health by years of hard drinking, would have been
a very ugly customer while the mad fit lasted ; so
we just stood our ground, ready to take him any

yo Soltke

way he wanted to come. After a minute or two he
seemed to feel the effect of four pairs of eyes looking
steadily at him, and the wild beast died out, and
his body, which had been as rigid as a ' standing '
pointer's, became visibly limp and nerveless. He
got up heavily, with a sUly, hysterical laugh, and
stood meekly before us, looking as foolish and
harmless as a human being might. He sidled over
towards Donald Mackay, keeping as far as possible
from Gowan, whom he clearly distrusted, and
looking furtively about, as though others besides
us might hear him, he said, with a sickly smile
and in a thin, uncertain voice :

'I was playin', Donald, old man, only playin'.
You know me — old Doc Munroe. You weren't
frightened, Donald, ehl He ! he ! I like to bark,
ye know. I like it, and who'll stop me if I like it,
eh? You could see I was playin', old partner.
You knew it, didn't you 1'

The man was wretchedly weak and shaky, and
as he continued to look about anxiously, he wiped
the heavy drops of cold perspiration off his colour-
less face with the dirty strip of kapalaan which
did service for a pocket-handkerchief. He sidled
up closer and closer to Donald, and watched with
growing intentness and terror the place from which
he had just emerged. Mackay quietly imprisoned
the knife-hand, but Munroe never noticed that.

Soltke 71

and only clung closer to him, and began to mutter
and cry out again, quivering with excitement and
terror, which grew on him, until he shrieked to
Donald to save him, and to ' knife him over
there ' — ^pointing to the tree beneath which he
had hidden. Key took the proffered knife, and,
walking quietly towards the tree, began to hack
it in an unenthusiastic manner ; and the relief that
this seemed to give Munroe would have been
ludicrous but for the desperate hopelessness it
brought for poor Soltk^.

It was no longer possible to keep up our well-
intended fiction about the doctor requiring rest,
for Munroe's maniac laughter and shrieks of terror
became so frequent and awful that they must
have startled one half a mile away. He became
so violent, that we were obliged to take him down
to the spruit, and to tie him down there in the
shadow of a high bank, with one of the niggers
to look after him, and an occasional visit from one
of us to see if all was well.

Soltk^ bore the news as he had borne aU that
went before, with silent, martyr-like patience. He
seemed to have guessed it : not a muscle moved,
not a feature changed. He listened to it as calmly
as he listened to our expressed hope that the
district surgeon would turn up by sundown, and
with as little personal concern.

72 Soltke

Towards evening lie spoke a good deal to us
all, but in a way that made our hearts sink. He
spoke of his home and his past life — for the first
time — and of something that was troubling him
greatly. He also admitted that his leg was feel-
ing very hot, and that he felt twinges of pain
shooting up into the groin and body.

At sundown he asked for his Prayer-Book, and
later on, when we had left him alone for a while,
and sat in silent, helpless despair by the neglected
fire, he asked for Eobbie. At last, at about ten
o'clock that night, we heard the welcome sound
of a horse's trotting, and to our unspeakable delight
the cheery little doctor turned up. Poor old Soltk^
did brighten up then, and the smile which had
never failed him throughout the days of sufiering
seemed to me more easy and hopeful. In less
than an hour the shattered leg was off. In
spite of the bad light and the rude appliances all
went well, and with infinite relief we saw Soltk^
doze off under the merciful influence of the morphia
which the doctor had brought. We felt that we
had rounded the turn, and could afford to sleep
easy. The little doctor, who had ridden seventy
miles since sun-up, rolled into his blankets near
where Soltk^ slept', and was in the land of dreams
long before we, who were restless from very relief
and joy, could settle down to close our eyes.

Soltke 73

I seemed to have dozed for but a few minutes,
when in my dreams, as it seemed to me, I heard
in the faintest but clearest whisper the doctor
saying : ' Mortification, you know ! I couldn't
see it by candle-Ught, or we might have spared
him the operation.'

He was just dead. He sighed himself out, as
the doctor said, like a tired chUd to sleep. We
buried him dose to the road under a big thorn-
tree, which we stripped of its bark for a couple of
feet to serve for a headstone for his grave. It
was the tree where we had seen him on his knees
at prayer. And as it neared sundown, we caUed
for the oxen, and inspanned for the evening trek.

The doctor had gone. He had to get back those
seventy miles to see another patient, whose life
perhaps depended upon the grit of his gallant
little horse.

During the night Munroe had managed to get
loose, and with a madman's cunning had got away
with his horse and disappeared, which was perhaps
a good thing for him.

The boys had packed everything on the waggons,
and were lashing the bedding in the tent-waggon
so as to be out of the way of the dust and the
thorns, when one of them picked up and handed
put to us the open book and writing materials, •
just as Soltke had left them three days before,

{

74 Soltke

when he had jumped out to shoot the blue

jay.

The diary lay open at the last-written page, and
we read :

'The most verushius of reptile is the Whuy-
per '

Eobbie closed the book gently and put it away.
It didn't seem the least bit funny then.

At midnight, when the long night trek was over,
and we were rolled in our blankets near the camp-
fixe, Eobbie's heart was full, and he spoke — slowly
and in half-broken tones :

' Ye mind the time he sent for me ? Ye do ?
Yes ; well, it was to ask my forgiveness for what
he said the day I struck him. Ay, he did
that !'

Eobbie looked slowly round the circle through
dimmed glasses, and thgn went on hesitatingly :

' And he said, too, that we had all been too good
to him, and that he had played it low on us ; and
that he — he hoped the good God would pardon
him the greatest crime of aU. And he said that I
must give his Prayer-Book and his zither ' (Eobbie
continued in a lower and reverent tone) ' to — ^to
his child — his little boy.'

' Solthe's child f came from aU together.

Eobbie nodded, and there was a space of time
when everyone shifted a little and felt chilled; but

Soltke 7?

it was Gowan who put our common thought into,
words.

' Where is his wife 1' he asked slowly.

' Dead !' said Eobbie.

* I — I didn't know he was married.'

Eobbie's look was a prayer for mercy, as he
answered :

' He wasn't !'

INDUNA NAIRN.

'Moodie's' was concession ground, and belonged
to a company ; but as ' findings is keepings ' is the
first law of the prospector, there were quite a num-
ber of people, otherwise honest and well-principled,
who tjpiought that it would be the right thing to
rush it and peg it, and parcel it out among them-
selves upon such terms and conditions as a com-
mittee of their own number might decide.

So of course they rushed it !

They were good men and true, and they were
strong in their righteous indignation, but in nothing
else ; and when it came to trying conclusions with
a Grovernment, they, being penniless, short-rationed,
and few in numbers, went under, and were carried
ofi' under arrest to Pretoria, the committee desig-
nate going in bulk, with their proposers and
seconders thrown in.

It was then that the real inwardness of an em-

Induna Nairn 'j'j

barrassing position was revealed; The case of
'The State v. H. Bankerpitt and Twenty-nine
Others ' could not come on for many weeks, and
the Government, being mistrusted by the Pretoria
tradesmen, who would no longer accept ' goodfors '
of even a few shillings value, attempted to mas-
querade stern necessity as simple grace, and offered
to release the prisoners on bail.

The offer was rejected with derision.

Next day Government went one better and offered
to release them on parole without bail. But even this
did not tempt them, and eventually a delegate was
deputed to interview the prisoners so as to ascertain
their wishes. The unanimous reply was :

' You brought us here. You can keep us here.
We are quite contented,'

It was then realized that the matter was serious,
and a meeting of the Executive Council was called
and the gravity of the situation explained by the
President of the State. The result of the delibera-
tions was the presentation by the Government of
an ultimatum, which was in effect, ' Choose between
a compromise and a freeze-out.'

They accepted the compromise.

It was that the Government shouldnfi^d them in
lodging and they should find their board.

It was not a very grand compromise, but it was
better than a freeze-out, and during the ensuing

78 Induna Nairn

months in which ' The State v. H. Bankerpitt and
Twenty -nine Others ' sustained many adjournments
and much publicity in the Pretoria press, only once
was the modus vivendi thus established in any way
threatened.

The younger members of the party had begun to
keep irregular hours. One or two remonstrances
failing to effect an improvement, the worthy gaoler
resolved upon the extremest measure. He posted
the following notice on the door :

' Anyone failing to return by nine p.m. will be
locked out.'

There was no further trouble.

*****

Some months had passed since the trial. The
State had vindicated its authority; the inherent
right of man was thrown out of court ; and ' H.
Bankerpitt and Twenty-nine Others ' had paid the
penalty for their mistaken zeal. The man in the
street had ceased to prophesy that the case would
lead to war with the suzerain power, the weekly
newspaper resumed its normal appearance, and the
'constant reader' was no longer haunted by a
headline more constant than himself.

' Hoodie's ' was controlled by its rightful owners,
but its name was as wormwood in the prospector's
mouth, and the quondam Promised Land became a
spot accursed and despised.

Induna Nairn 79

Across the valley of the Kaap, over the rock-
crested mountains of Maconchwa, out into the
shattered hills and ranges of Swazieland, and over
the hot hush-hidden flats the prospectors took their
ways to find something somewhere which would
be their own.

They went singly and in pairs, and they ' humped
swag and tucker' when they had no donkeys to
pack. It was a rule with few exceptions that they
only went in parties and without swag when there
was a rush on.

This was one of the exceptions.

Seven men in irregular Indian file, and at irre-
gular distances apart, were toiling up the green
'slopes of the Maconchwa.

They were following a path, and one after another
would stop and turn panting to pay tribute to the
steepness of the hill and the beauty of the view
below.

Far below them, and farther still ahead, the
smooth-worn path meandered over the hill's face
like a red-brown thread woven in the green. The
sun was fiercely strong, but the breath of the moun-
tain was cool, and they drank it in gratefully at
each rest.

They were all marked with the ' out-of-luck '
brand. It was stamped on their faces. They were
all tired, and most of them looked hungry as well.

8o Induna Nairn

When the leader reached the top, he looked ex-
pexjtantly around on all sides, then, stepping briskly
towards an outcrop near by, from which a better
view was obtainable, he looked again long and
carefully. Then he came back to the path where
the others had already assembled, and cursed the
country and all in it from the bottom of his bitter
soul.

' There's no house and there's no kraal, and
there's no Grod-damn-nothing. It's eight hours
since we started on the " two-mile " tramp, and I
knew from the start we were fooled. If Choky
Wilson had known anything he would have come
himself, and not told you.'

He scowled at a younger member of the party who
was standing by chewing a stem of grass and looking
down across the Crocodile and Hlambanyati valleys.

' What did the Swazie boy say ?' asked another,
turning readily on the youngster as the convenient
scapegoat.

The younger one answered good-temperedly :

' He said that the White Induna was on the
Maconchwa, near the first water that came out of
the white rock.' ,

' Maconchwa !' snarled the leader, ' why, it's

twenty miles long ! The whole d d range is

Maconchwa. Any idiot might be expected to
know that.'

Induna Nairii 8i

' Yes, that's why I didn't offer to explain,' said
the younger one.

The thrust passed unnoticed, and while a. general
indaha was going on the last speaker moved to the
same spot from which the leader had viewed the
country.

He knew the Kaffir and his language and his
habits, and he could read the face of the country
as well as the niggers themselves, so they heeded
him when he spoke, although he was the youngest
member of the party, and when a few minutes
later he cut into the conversation with the remark
that ' there was a cattle kraal near by and they
had better go on there and ask the way,' there was
a general chorus of ' Where ?' and an incredulous
' Darned if I can see it !' from the leader.

The youngster replied again :

' Nor can I, but it's there all the same.'

' How do you know ?'

' Look,* he said, pointing to a slope about a
mile distant.

'Well, look at what?'

' Can't you see that red patch on the rise there ?'

' What, those water- worn dongas ?'

' Not dongas — cattle tracks. They are from the
drinking-place. That must be the White Rock
up there, and I expect the house must be behind
the clump of trees.'

6

82 Induna Nairn

They walked on until the trees were reached
and they could see the small rough stone house
through a thinner portion of the Bush, and there
they waited awhile to take counsel. It was finally
decided that they should all go up together, but
they looked to the one who seemed to be their
leader to act as spokesman.

' If he's a white man at all,' remarked he in front,
' he won't refuse us grub, anyhow ; but that's just it.
They say he's no more white than old Bandine, that
he hates the sight of white men, and keeps as far
from them as he can. He's been so long among the
darned niggers that he's just one of them himself.'

They passed along the path to the house, and
six of the party waited below while the leader
mounted the steps of the mud stoep.

A tall man with a long brown beard stepped
out of an open doorway and met him.

The whole party oflFered 'good-evening' with
more or less empressement, and certainly with a
greater show of politeness than was customary
with them ; but the man only slid his hands easily
into the pockets of a light duck-coat, and looked
with critical and not too Mendly glance at the
leader, ignoring the others.

' We're out prospectin'' about here,' began the
leader, ' and we thought we'd just come along and
look you up.'

Induna Nairn 83

As there was no reply to this, not even a
change in the look nor a twitch of a muscle to be
construed into acknowledgment of the remark,
the speaker resumed quickly and with less com-
posure :

' The niggers told us you hung out about here,
and, bein' the only white man in these parts, we
kind 0' came along to see what was doin', and if
there was any chance of reefin', and about the
licenses and water and that.'

The owner of the house continued to look
steadily and in silence at the speaker. The latter,
when the invitation of a second pause passed unac-
cepted, flushed up and, abandoning the previous
method, asked curtly :

' Can you sell us any food ? Fowls or crushed
mealies, or anything. We're half dead o' trampin'

over your d d hills, and I want food for self

and mates. We're h,v down enough, but we reckon
to pay .for what we get. We're not loafin' !'

The man did not appear to notice this hostile
tone any more than he had the former conciliatory
one ; but, after another deadly pause, he asked,
in a quiet, clear voice :

' Your name?'

' Bankerpitt,' said the other.

The faintest trace of a smile lit up the man's
face as he remarked quietly :

6—2

84 Induna Nairn

' Ah, H. Bankerpitt ' — and glancing for the first
time at the rest of the -paxtj—^ and twenty-nine
othei's !'

He turned and walked slowly into the house,
closing the door after him.

Bankerpitt had scarcely strength to say, ' Well,
I'md d!'

The party turned away, tired and hungry, and
marched in silence to the clump of trees near the
spruit below the house. There was no other water
near, so they made camp for the night there.

It was dark. Occasionally the brighter gleams
of the fire lighted up the circle of sullen faces.
There was nothing to eat or drink, so they had
settled down to a monotonous chorus of curses on
theijrenegade who had turned his back on his own
colour. One by one each added his quota of bitter,
unmeasured abuse until their vocabularies, com-
prehensive as they were, began to give out, and
only now and then a mere exclamation .of disgust,
or a well-brooded curse, would break the heavy
silence.

There being nothing to cook, there was nothing
to do at that time of evening but to brood on their
wrongs. They did this thoroughly until a faint
rustle in the wood made them look round, and then
a child's voice close behind the group gave the
Kaffir salutation ' Makos !' Someone raised a brand

Induna Nairn 85

from " the fire, and by its light they saw two
umfaans bearing on their heads a large earthen
bowl each. One bowl contained fresh milk, the
other a stew of fowls and stamped mealies.

The boys had the look of bright intelligence
characteristic of the Zulu race, but when Banker-
pitt asked sharply, ' "Who sent this ?' they ex-
changed one glance, and a cloud of the densest
stupidity settled on their faces. Bankerpitt re-
peated his question, dragging one urchin closer
to the fire. The reply, given in a thin, childish
treble, was:

' It is food, white man ! It is here !'

' Tell me !' he said fiercely, giving the child's
arm a shake, ' does it come from that white dog up
there ?'

Even in the urchins of the race there is the
instinct of evasion which enables them to baffle the
closest inquiries.

' It is food for the white man. It is here!' was
all that Bankerpitt's bullying could elicit.

'If we take it, it's because we must; but, by
God! we'll pay him for it, same as we would
any other blasted nigger!' exclaimed Bankerpitt
savagely; and he drew from his leathern belt-
pouch the three shillings it contained and thrust
them into the umfaan's hand. The coins were
dropped like hot coals, and the child said :

86 Induna Nairn

' I want no money, white man ; I bring a gift.'

But the men were hungry and took the food ;
and presently the two umfaans drew nearer to the
fire, and, squatting on their haunches, awaited
with ox -like patience the emptying of their bowls.
When at last the boys stood up to go, the youngest
of the party, who had been a silent and amused
witness of his leader's attempt to get information
out of them, said something ia a low tone, to
which one boy replied :

' Inkosikaas.'

A soft significant whistle was the only com-
ment.

' What was that, Geddy ?' said Bankerpitt
quickly.

'I asked who sent them with the food.'

' Well, who did ?'

'He says "The missis"!'

'Shrine of the Mighty !'

* * * « *

That was the first experience of Induna
Nairn.

*****

The second came this wise, about a year later.

There had been a row in Delagoa about some
cattle which had been stolen. The rightful owners
took their own way about getting them back, for
they had more confidence in themselves than in the

Induna Nairn 87

Portuguese; but, unfortunately, just at the last
moment, an accident happened which made trouble
for them. That was why they had been across the
border away in Swazie country for so many months,
and that was why they were coming back over the
mountains and in a quiet way, for they were not
sure of the reception which might await them.

One of them was Geddy, the youngster of the
former party.

Greddy had not forgotten his experience of Nairn's
' hospitable roof,' and had given his companion,
with considerable force and numerous illustrations,
a fair picture of the well-remembered night. It is

not surprising t^hat they decided to give 'the d d

white nigger's ' house the ' go-by.'

Nairn's house stood on the track ; in fact, the
only feasible road up the Berg was a bridle-path
cut by Nairn up to his house ; thence the ordinary
native paths led in all directions, and — by reason —
one or more led to the Kaap. In order to pass the
house in mid-trek they made their morning off-
saddle below the Berg, intending by noon to be
some miles beyond the Peak. Near the Berg there
are two climates, one for ' below ' and one for ' on
top,' and it was quite reasonable and natural to
rise, as they did, out of the placid spring morniiig
on the flats into a first-class thunderstorm with
high wind and driving rain as soon as they reached

88 Induna Nairn

the exposed plateau. The tu-ed horses refused to
face the sheets of rain, and snorted and shook with
fright at the lightning stabbing here and there and
everywhere, and the deafening crashes of thunder.
There was nothing for it but to dismount and, as
the poor brutes turned their tails to the storm, to
crouch to leeward of them for such shelter as they
could give, and pray to Heaven that hail would not
follow the rain.

Drenched, sopping, numbed and pierced by the
cold wind that succeeded the storm, they resumed
their ride half an hour later. Their clothes were
setting hard in the wind, their blankets — strapped
over the pommels — carried pounds weight of water,
and the pulpy saddles clung like indiarubber.

The poor horses toiled on, slipping and sprawling
along the greasy, smooth-worn Kaffir path, and
when they rounded a little koppie that flanked
Nairn's house, and came suddenly on the well- worn
track that led to the house itself — ^not twenty yards
, off — they pricked their ears, and with a low whinny
of welcome and joy trotted towards the house.
Geddy pocketed his pride and, bowing to circum-
stances that were too much for him, allowed his
horse to follow the other's lead. He did not, how-
ever, dismount as the other did, but sat in the
saddle with an air of neutrality, awaiting the turn
of events.

Induna Nairn 89

Geddy was prepared* for many possible develop-
ments, and- — by reason of the feeling description
given him of the previous visit — his companion
was also forearmed against contingencies, and was
ready with replies suited to any form of incivility ;
but when Nairn stepped out on to the stoep looking
infinitely amused, and remarked frankly, 'By Gad!
you are two miserable-looking objects !' — when
this happened the two just looked down at them-
selves and then at each other, and finally burst into
laughter more genuine and prolonged than the
ostensible cause would seem to warrant.

The house must have contained four rooms ; but
they only saw two. It was a very quiet place.
Oddly enough there were no dogs about, and the
fowls did not seem to be as self-assertive there as
Swazie fowls usually are. There were no noises at
all about the place, not even the welcome sounds of
' life. All seemed to be toned down, weighed down,
to abouf ihe level of sociability which had marked
Nairn's manner on the first visit, Geddy, feeling
a little mean, it is true, was careful not to betray
any indications of having been there before, but
while they were getting into dry clothing in Nairn's

' bedroom, he drew his companion's attention to a
large calabash that stood on the window-sill half

: full of milk. It had been cracked, and there was a
small Y-shaped nick in the rim, below which, and

90 Induna Nairn

encircling the gourd itself, was a delicate network
of plaited brass, copper, and iron wires.

' That was the one the milk came in that night,'
said Geddy, in a whisper. ' I remember spilling
some on account of thaib nick, and then I noticed
the wire.'

His companion nodded. -It was not an im-
portant nor even a very interesting discovery.

The younger waited a little, and then, slightly
disgusted at the other's slowness, said :

'Well, either he sent the grub to us himself,
or—'

' Or what ?'

' Or Where's the missis ?'

They took in the room at a glance ; but there
was no answering evidence there. And when they
joined Nairn they found that there were easy-chairs
in the dining-room ; so there they sat and smoked,
and watched the rain set in as the regular spring
drizzle does above the Berg.

The chairs, like, the rest of the furniture, were
rough-made from bushwood ; but it seemed odd
that a hermit should have three. There was a
bookcase in the room, and it was full of well-
bound and well-worn books, * mostly odd volumes —
very few series,' as Geddy remarked afterwards.
There were a good many books of science, and all
the poets he could recall ; and there were books in

Induna Nairn 91

LatiB, French, Greek, and German, Somehow he
did not like to ask the real questions he wanted to
put about the books. He did not quite know how
far to go. In reply to one question, Nairn had
said dryly that he had brought them with Jiim,
and was apparently indisposed to say more. He
was not an easy man to draw.

During the day they had evidence of the re-
spect in which Nairn was held by his dependents.
He spoke to them in the lowest possible voice and
in the fewest possible words, and never — except
once, when something had occurred which annoyed
him — ^never looked at, or even in the direction of,
the individual addressed. On that occasion he
was asking a question of a tall and remarkably
good-looking Swazie woman.

She stood like a bronze statue while he spoke,
and when he looked at her and his eyes blazed
anger, although his voice did not alter, the colour
rose to the woman's face, and turned her brown
skin a reddish-bronze. Her head was slowly lowered,
and |the only ^answer was a faint whisper of the
word, 'Inkos — chief!' The incident was trifling, but
Geddy noticed it, and noted that his way with his
boys and the men about the place was the same,
and began to see why they called him ' Induna
Nairn.'

As the rain had not abated Nairn insisted upon

92 Induna Nairn

their remaining overnight. He was pleasant,
courteous, and most interesting, Ml of the
strangest and most intimate knowledge of the
country and the natives. He frequently illustrated
remarks by references to other countries and other
people, but neither of his guests cared to put the
direct question as to whether he had been to those ,
countries or only read of them. He gave no in-
formation about himself Geddy was not satisfied
with this, and with his sense of what is due to
one's host somewhat dulled — doubtless by the recol-
lection of his previous visit — ^took every opportunity
of leading up to those topics which Nairn most
avoided, but which Geddy hoped would throw a
light upon the man himself.

Beaten on the subject of the books, baffled when
he led up to personal experiences, foiled gently
but firmly at every attempt, Geddy at last got an
inspiration and laid for a bold stroke.

They were at dinner, and the peculiarly savoury
character of the stew recalled to the youngster
again the question that had been puzzling him all
along. Summoning all his nerve, he said with
cheery zest :

' By Jove, Nairn, after months of roast mealies
and tough game — without salt, too — this does taste
delicious !'

' Glad you like it,' said his host quietly. ' Staple

Induna Nairn

93

dish, you know. Just stewed fowl and stamped
mealies !'

' Yes, by George ! but such a stew ! Who —
who's your cook ?'

' Well, I suppose it becomes an easy task when
the bill of fare doesn't vary once a month ;' and
Nairn looked up curiously at his guest.

* But how do you manage it, eh ? No boy ever
cooked like this.'

Nairn delayed replying until a faint guilty
flush touched up the other's cheeks, and then
laughingly — and with a significant look of complete
intelligence — he said :

' I was just wondering, Mr. Geddy, if you were
as favourably impressed with it the last time you
were here ?'

Had the roof dropped in on him the collapse of
^^tdy would not have been more complete. Heron
lai^hed unrestrainedly, perhaps because (as has
■ been said) there is something not altogether dis-
pleasing in the misfortunes of our Mends ; perhaps,
too, because his view of the incident referred to
was untinged by the bitter sense of personal humili-
ation, and his htltoour had therefore full play.

Nairn did not press his discomfited guest, but,
smiling pleasantly, took up the burden of the talk.

'I know quite well what you thought of me,
and I know even something of what you said

94 Induna Nairn

about "the white dog," etc., but I think (and I
fancy neither of you will take offence at plain
speaking) — I think that I did right in repulsing
what had all the appearance of imposition.' He
pushed back his chair and turned to the younger
man. ' Just put yourself in my place, now, Geddy.
I came to this place of my own choice. I seek
'nothing of other men, and I desire to go my own
way unmolested. I was here, before your people
came in their feverish hunt for gold. I dare say I
shall be here when you have ended the fruitless
search. If things should turn against me and
your luck be in the ascendant — why ! there is
room in Africa for us both. I can move on.'

Nairn spoke in an easy, unemotional way, as
though discussing an abstract question of minor
importance.

' Do you know,' he continued after a while, ' I
sought out this spot and I chose this life because
here there is no nineteenth century, no struggle,
no ambition, no unrest. Here is absolute peace
and content for me because I need take no thought
of the morrow. You who spend your lives and
energies on the outside edge of civilization paving
a way for others' feet — you are beglamoured by
your " life of freedom, adventure, and romance."
My dear sirs, that is a view that I cannot pretend
even to understand, much less sympathize with.

Induna Nairn 95

It may appear unnatural to you, but it is a fact,
that I dislike the society of civilized men, and most
of all that of the pioneers — ^the sappers and miners
of civilization — who think a white skin a warrant
for anything. Odd as it may seem to you, I do
not regard each white man as a friend or a brother.
On the contrary, I see in him a possible enemy
and a certain nuisance.'

Nairn leaned back in his chair, and thoughtfully
polished the bowl of his pipe.

They had finished dinner, and were lighting
up for a smoke. The others puffed away in
silence.

He had said his say candidly and without heat,
and no offence had been meant or taken. Presently
Heron said :

' What puzzles me, Nairn, is, since you distrust
every white man you see, what the devil made you
ask us in ?'

• Aye ! that's it,' said Geddy good-humouredly.
' That's the very question I was going to ask.
What made you change your opinion?'

' Well,' said Nairn, with simple directness, ' your
case is peculiar. I had a certain sympathy with
you, you see, for we are all outlaws together — I
from choice !'

Both men coloured faintly, and Geddy asked at
once:

96 Induna Nairn

' How could you know that at the time ? How
did you know us — or me ?'

' My dear fellow, I knew you by several means.
In the first place, I had met you before- — you see,
I do not see so many white faces that I can't
remember them ; and in the second place, the
umfaan to whom you spoke that night, you recol-
lect, also recognised you.'

Geddy, who recalled in a flash both the question
he had asked that night and the answer given by
the boy, shrank under Nairn's direct, calm look.

' But,' he continued without pause, ' you forget
— or did you not know? — that for a month there
was a detachment of police on the watch for you
here.'

' Lucifer ! What luck we didn't come sooner !'
exclaimed Heron, aghast. ' They'd have had us,
as sure as God made little apples !'

*0h, that was all right,' said Nairn, smiling.
' I was well posted as to their plans and move-
ments. You see, I heard of your affair in Delagoa,
and I knew you had gone for a spell to Mahaash's
and Sebougwaan's, and you were safe enough there.
In any case, I took the precaution of sending word
to Mahaash to stop you if you wanted to come
back before the coast was clear. He had a letter
for you from me for some time, but returned it
yesterday with a message to say you were coming

Induna Nairn 97

this way, and that was why I was expecting you
when you turned up this morning.'

Geddy put out his hand, saying :

' By God, Nairn, you are a trump ! You've
been a perfect Providence to us ; and — and I take
back all I said about you that other time.'

Nairn smiled and shook his head.

' I'm afraid,' he answered, ' that it was only
because yon were in a scrape that I sided with you

at all. It seemed a bit of a d d shame that

the Government should set on a couple of fellows
because they had chosen to settle their grievances
their own way, which is what you did, I believe?'

Heron smiled grimly, and nodded reply. ,

' You seem to have had pretty good information
about us,' Geddy remarked. ' I suppose your
neighbours keep you well posted ?'

' Yes ; there are Boswells among them, too. I
have had faithfully retailed to me the whole of the
aflfair of Mahaash and the silver spur. Don't put
another chief to ride a bucking horse with a spur.
They may not all fall as lightly as Mahaash, and
they may not all be as good-tempered.'

' Upon my soul,' said Heron, ' I did it in perfect
good faith. He wanted a present, and I gave him
what I could best spare. How could I possibly
know that that old crock would buck ?'

' Well, you had a lucky escape. Umketch

7

98 Induna Nairn

would have had you kerried. They don't like to
appear ridiculous. How did you lose your pocket-
book, Geddy ?'

' How — the — deuce '

Nairn laughed heartily.

' Why, man, it has been here for weeks, waiting
for you! They bring me all these things, with
their gossip and their troubles. An old fellow, a
witch-doctor, brought the pocket-book. He said
he found it by divination — casting the dollas ; the
old fraud ! He walked up here, some forty miles,
just to gossip about you. It took him three days
before he produced the book. The first day he
talked of the prospects of rain, and the grass and
the cattle ; the next he spoke about the rumours
that were afloat about white men working into the
ground and bursting it open with guns, and
wondered if white men would overrun Swazieland;
and he wound up with the admission that he had
heard of two having been seen, and on horseback,
too, and with rifles. Notwithstanding which, he
believed them to be English, for one had given a
shilling to a young girl as a present, and the other
had a book in which he wrote. There it is on the
shelf beside you. He wanted to sell it, but I took
it from him, and told him he would probably have
bad luck, and one of his cows would be barren
or lose her calf this year because he had meddled

Induna Nairn 99

with your goods, and failed to return the book
to you. He stole it, of course ?'

'The old scoundrel!' said Geddy, reaching for
the book ; ' he must have found it while we were
yet in sight. I left it in a hut in one of the
kraals.'

' Yes ; I'm afraid he was an old thief,' said
Nairn. ' The raw Swazie would think nothing of
a twenty or thirty mile jaunt to return it ; but
these witch-doctors are mostly old Basuto ruffians,
steeped in guile. They have few scruples when
there is a prospect of profit.'

'On my word,' laughed Heron, 'I don't know
what you may not know about us with agencies
like this, and a whole nation making a confidante
of you ! What a rum life you do lead !'

Nairn looked at him curiously, and remarking
dryly that they were a very peculiar people, rose
from his seat, and made it clear that he thought it
time for bed. He showed them to his own room,
where an extra bed had been fixed up, and wishing
them ' Good-night,' left them.

Quoth Geddy :

' I didn't like to ask him where he would sleep
if we took his room, as one feels bound to do in
common civility. I'd have got another of those
gentle cold-blooded sneers for my pains. You
know, old chap, with all due respect — and all that

7—2

loo Induna Nairn

sort of thing — for our host, he's beastly uncivil the
moment you ask questions. It's a regular case of
scratch the Russian and you find the Tartar.'

' Yes ; you're right. Although it seems a bit
ungrateful to say so, I'm dashed if I'd care to have
much to do with him. Did you see him shut up
when I remarked about his living a queer life ?
Gad! his lips closed up until they fitted like the
valves of an oyster. He's as suspicious as the
devil!'

' I say, look here — a photo ! Just look, man !
" Harrison Nairn " on the back of it ! Quite a
decent-looking chap. Heron, I wonder who she
is?'

' God knows ! I don't !'

' Someone else's, you can bet, or he wouldn't lie
so low, eh ?'

' H'm ! looks devilish like it.'

' I say. Heron,'

'What?' .

' I wonder what he'd say if he heard us, eh?'

' Shut up, man ; go to sleep !'

' I say ! The ideal white man — " a possible
enemy and a certain nuisance." '

' For Heaven's sake, man, shut up ! They'll hear
you sniggering. Good-night!'

Induna Nairn loi

II.

It was a dark night and still— the stillness that
often precedes a thunderstorm. The clouds were
banked up thick, and only here and there on the
outer fringes, where cuts in the hills gave a glimpse
nearer the horizon, was there a faint lighting of
the gloomy canopy.

Low's Creek runs through one of Nature's perfect
amphitheatres and finds its outlet at the Poort.
If that were blocked, there would be a lake many
hundred feet deep; but as it is not blocked, there
is only a very clear, sparkling stream rippling over
stony bottoms, or swirling under the overhanging
thorns and fig-trees — the one constant babbler on
such nights as this, . The road through this valley
is not over-good at the best of times, and it is
something worse than bad on a really darknight^
which was exactly what the driver .of the spider-
and-four thought as he pulled up with his near
fore-wheel foul of a dead tree-stump. There was
no damage done, for the horses were pleased to
take the sudden check as an excuse, if not indeed
a hint, to stop ; and when by the light of matches
the size of the obstacle Was determined, and means
were found to free the wheel, the driver said, ' Come !'
and the horses toiled on again up the hill towards
the Neck. Every now and then, as they climbed

I02 Induna Nairn

slowly up, the ladies — ^there were two ladies in
the spider — would point out the camp-fires of the
prospectors at various heights and distances on the
tops or slopes of the surrounding hills, and their
companion would tell them which was French
Bob's, and which the Cascade, and point out, high
and far, the famous Kimberley Imperial ; and the
Hottentot driver would peer out in front, silently
intent upon the road.

Toiling, swaying, and straining, they at last
reached the Neck, and gave the horses a blow.
Behind them, or rather below them, black as the
bottomless pit, lay the valley out of which they had
risen. In front lay the broader, shallower, furrowed
basin, through which the road winds, cross-cut by
Honeybird and Fig-tree Creeks; and beyond Avoca,
where the waters meet, they could see, through the
gap of the Queen's Eiver Poort, the lightning play-
ing in the distance — ^silent, clear, and not too vivid.

Down the easy slope the horses trotted out freely,
swinging their heads and snorting as the faint, cool
breeze, the sure" precursor of the storm, fanned and
freshened them. On they w^ent gaily for a couple
of miles till the deep, dry donga was reached, where
the road dips down suddenly into a black, murky,
impenetrable darkness. Above, the trees on either
side of the high banks intertwine their branches ;
beneath, the soft dead leaves lie upon a sandy bottom,

Induna Nairn 103

and the road is flanked by jungle, pure and simple.
It is like a tunnel. It is not possible to leave it
except at the ends.

The driver gave the leaders their heads, and
trusted to their knowing that he couldn't see, whilst
they might. The heavy grating of the brake, hard
pressed, sounded loud on the night air as the leaders
disappeared into the dark trough. Down went the
trap and horses with a diver's plunge at first, and
then more steadily and slowly they neared the
bottom ; but before it was reached, the leaders shied
violently to the off, the spider swung down the
slope, slid, a little, poised for a moment on two
wheels, and turned slowly over on its side on the
bed of leaves and sand. The horses, with their
heads jammed in the bush, were effectually stopped.

The ladies did not scream !

It seems wrong — unnatural; but they did not.
Urgent need and sudden danger, as they overwhelm
and stupefy some, so do they brace and brighten
others ; and when one of the horses whinnied in a
friendly way, it seemed odd that it should be a
girl's voice that exclaimed quickly :

' Listen ! they're not frightened. It must be
another horse !'

' Are you hurt ?' ' Where are you ?' and, ' Are
you all right?' were exchanged in the darkness ; and
then someone struck a match, and, making a dark

104 Induna Nairn

lantern of his hat, threw the light on the late
occupants of the spider.

The girls were dusty, pale, and frightened, and
the men looked anxious. The Hottentot driver
was swearing to himself in a discontented under-
tone, and endeavouring concurrently to loosen the
wheelers' harness.

' I am the culprit,' said the man with the light.
' I can only say I am very delighted that no one is
hurt, and awfully sorry that I gave you such a
fright. I'm sure I never meant it. I did not know
there was a soul within miles until the sound of
your brake frightened my horse into backing into
the bush here. The brute wouldn't budge, so I
sat still, hoping that you would pass without
seeing me.'

' Oh, it really doesn't matter in the least !' came
from one of the girls, as the match died out. ' You
don't know how relieved, how grateful we are to
you for not being a lion or a highwayman.'

The driver Piet had rummaged out a stump of
candle, and lighted it. It flickered uncertainly on
the caipsized spider, on the scattered cushions and
shawls, on the faces of the two young girls and
their companion, and faintly lighted up the lank
form and the dark bearded face of the enemy.

' I thought I knew your voice, Heron!' said the
latter quietly.

Induna Nairn 105

• Nairn ! By all that's great and wonderful !
What on earth were you '

' Well, I wasn't waylaying you with evU intent,
and I do hope that the ladies '

' Oh, I forgot. My sisters,' said Heron, with an
explanatory ware, ' Girls, this is Mr. Nairn, a
friend of mine. Yery much in disguise, you must
admit, Nairn!'

' Indeed I do. I confess, I repent, and I beg for
mercy; and, to give practical proof of my sincerity,
let me help you. Come on, Heron ; let's right the
trap first.'

No damage had been done to the trap, and the
three men soon succeeded in getting it on its wheels
again. The boy drove through the douga and up
the other bank without further difficulty, the others
preferring, to walk ; but out there, when he had
room to move round his team, the driver found
that the off-leader had gashed his shoulder badly
in the bush, and would have to be turned out.

Heron's heart sank, for it would be a serious
matter to attempt the four drifts of the Queen's
River in a heavy spider with only a pair. He
looked at the overcast sky, and turned in despair
to Nairn, who had remained with the ladies, and
knew nothing of the injury to the horse.

' Nairn, you know the road best. Is there any
place where we can stay the night ? We can't

io6 Induna Nairn

tackle the rivers. One of the leaders has cut his
shoulder badly and won't face the harness. We
must put up somewhere for the night !'

' There's Clothier's,' the other answered ; ' but
I'm afraid that won't do — a grass hut, and sardines,
gin, and rough customers. Charlie Brandt's —
ditto ! There's the Queen of Sheba's at Eureka
City; but, then, you'd never reach there alive —
at night. Let's see ! No ; there's no fit place
between this and Barberton.' '

' There !' said Heron, ' we'll spend a pleasant
night in the veld, rain and all. I wish we'd come
on a bit further with the waggons. It will be
rough on you girls.'

But they did not seem dismayed at the prospect;
in fact, they considered it a romantic sort of picnic
adventure. Heron, who had had malarial fever,
took no count of the romance.

While the matter was being discussed, Nairn
went forward and carefully examined the injured
horse. Heron had decided to outspan where they
were, under a big Dingaan apricot-tree, and the
ladies were busy making plans for the disposal of
cushions, wraps, and rugs to fend off the coming
rain.

' That horse will be worse to-morrow than he is
to-night. He won't be well for weeks,' said Nairn
coolly. ' How do you propose getting on at all,

Induna Nairn

ro7

even if you do stay here to-night? What do you
gain by the delay ?'

Heron was somewhat taken aback.

' Well,' he answered, ' we gain the daylight, any-
way ; that's something.'

' Something — yes ; but daylight won't take you
through the rivers with one pair of horses. They'll
be pretty full, too, after to-night's rain.'

' That's true,' said Heron gloomily ; ' and it's
raining like old Harry now up at the headwaters.
Look at the lightning over the Kaap Valley !'

They looked, and the quick play of the distant
flashes left no room for doubt. Then Nairn spoke
again — without impulsej without enthusiasm, but
deliberately, as though he had considered the matter
and reluctantly but finally made his decision.

' You will have to put my horse in place of the
injured one, and go on to-night. I can walk.'

He did not affect that the idea was the happy
thought of the moment, or that it was from all
points of view a good one. He seemed from his
tone to be making the best of a bad job, and Heron
saw that so distinctly that he could only stammer
out weakly :

' Oh, really, it's awfully good of you, but we
couldn't allow you to walk.'

But the taller of the two girls came to her
brother's assistance.

io8 Induna Nairn

' I think it's a capital idea ! Don't you see, Jack,
Mr. Nairn wants " to give a practical proof of his
sincerity " ?'

The lazy, mischievous imitation of Nairn's tone
and manner in quoting his own words brought a
hearty laugh from the others against Nairn, for he
had 'given himself away'; and once or twice as
they were changing horses and preparing to start,
Nairn found himself looking curiously at the girl
who had ' let him down.'

They were nearly ready to start when she came
over to him, and said :

' You are not going to walk. You will come
with us, won't you ?'
He shook his head.

' My way is not your way. Miss Heron.'

' No, no ; you express it wrongly. My way is your

way. We have room for you and you must come.'

' But I have just come from Barberton, and I

live in — in the Swazie country.' And his voice

dropped to nothing on the last words.

' Now, Mr. Nairn, I know you are afraid of over-
crowding us. You have to come for your horse,
so that excuse won't do ; and since you compel
me to tell the whole truth, Jack says you know
the road best, and we want you to come because
we are just a tiny little bit afraid of those horrid
rivers. Now I've told you.'

Induna Nairn 109

Nairn submitted ; but as they drove along in
the dark more than once the thought occurred that
even ■ the best of women will stoop to the most
unfair means to gain their points.

After many years it was all fresh to him again.

They spun along the smooth soft road, slowing
up in places for the dongas — those deeply-worn
furrows in Nature's face, the result of many a
heavy storm. They passed the huge old fig-tree
standing sentinel where the waters meet, and crossed
the Fig-tree Creek, which, to the experienced ear
of the men, had a fuller and angrier tone than was
its wont. They passed ' Clothier's ' in silence. To
the girls the grass shanty leaking candle-light at
every pore in its misshapen sides, the shouts of
laughter, the half-heard son"gs, the glimpse of the
interior as they passed the door, showing the rough
gin-case counter, backed by shelves laden with
' square face,' and the bare-armed, bearded man
craning over to dodge the glare of guttering
candles and see who or what was passing by — all
made a picture unique and indelible.

They wound slowly round the bend and over
the big smooth rocks down to the Fourth Drift.

The water ran silently over the sandy bottom,
and when the horses were in breast-high and their
movements no longer caused a splash, the absolute
stillness begat a feeling of awe and fear of the

no Induna Nairn

black-looking water that is so silent, so strong, and
so treacherous.

To everyone there comes a sense of strain re-
lieved and spirits reviving on coming through a bad
river, and to the young girls, whose first experience
it was, the splashing of the leaders' feet in shallow
water, and the rising up the sandy bank, brought
an ecstasy of relief.

Driving up the valley of the Lampogwana, Nairn
and Heron cheered them with tales of the gold-
fields and of the country, and ignored the river
and the coming storm ; but the steep rush into the
Third Drift;, and the tossing and jolting over the
boulders, and the angry racing of the water and
the more distinct roll of the thunder, were features
in a first experience which were not to be talked
away, and if Nairn felt his conversational powers
disparaged by very evident non-attention, perhaps
this was compensated for by occasional graspings
of his arm — mute appeals for protection which men
take as compliments.

Going slowly down the cutting to the Second
Drift, the course of the river was shown up by the
lightning, and one bluish gleam in particular lit
up the scene with such unsurpassable vividness
that long after all was black again the eye retained
a view of dark water in swirls and curves of
wonderful grace, of foam-crested breakers and jets

Induna Nairn 1 1 1

of spray, of swaying shrubs and bent, quivering
reeds.

Nairn recalled another such night when his horse,
which had paused to sniff before facing the flood,
jerked his head up with a snort as a blinding flash
had shown him a white face for an instant above
the water. The fixed stare that the dead eyes gave
him lingered long after succeeding flashes had shown
an unbroken surface of river again. But he did not
speak of this.

They drove slowly over the little flat through
which the river ran, and as that was barely covered
by the flood they knew that the river was just
passable for the spider, but it meant getting a
wetting as it was dangerously near flood mark.

Piet pulled up. The ladies and the baases, he
said, could take the footpath along the mountains
over the krantzes and avoid the two drifts. It
was only four miles to the next hotel. He would
like to outspan and stay where he was — the river
was too full, and the next drift would be worse
still. The river was coming down.

But Heron was obstinate, and Nairn, who knew
the footpath past the Golden Valley, knew it to
be an impossible alternative for ladies, at night ;
so Heron called out : ' Kate, you grip the rail, and
Nairn will look aflier you ! You hang on to me,
Nell!' They went in, and the water washed on to

I J 2 Induna Nairn

the seats, and the spider swayed to the stream ; but
the horses headed up bravely, and buoying on the
waters, or sousing underneath, half swimming and
half wading, they pulled through.

' Hold up, Nell ! hold up, little woman ! Don't
cry now, we're as safe as houses !' was what Nairn
heard from the opposite seat.

What happened beside him was that his com-
panion's grasp loosened on the rail, and as the
spider rose up the soft, sandy bank, she slid back
against him with her weight on the arm he had
passed behind her as protection, and her cheek
against his shoulder.

When they pulled ^p on the level road again,
while her sister was laughing off her tears, Kate
pulled herself together with an effort, and said,
with a half-sobbing laugh :

'I was very fri — frightened that time. I — I
think I should have fallen out but for you.'

Then the storm broke over them, and the rain
came down in blinding torrents, and the horses,
ducking and swaying before it, moved slowly on.
Flash after flash lit up the hills above and the river
below as they toiled along where the road was cut
out of the precipitous hillside. Every furrow was
a stream, every gutter a watercourse ; the water
seemed to gush from the very earth ; the river
itself was a seething mud-red torrent.

Induna Nairn 113

The First Drift, which, as they were coming
up stream, was their last, is broader, and not as
deep as the others ; but in those days it was full
of boulders, and the water raced down in three
separate channels, although the surfeice showed but
one broad stream. The drift is now higher up,
where the bed is even, and the current is not so
strong. They have also a wire rope across, and
a ferry-boat ; but it was not so in '87. They
have done a good deal to improve things, but
still the river is king, and asserts itself upon
occasion ; as when it took a thousand tons of
solid masonry from the Cerro de Pasco dam a
hundred yards below this drift, and carried samples
of dressed stone and Portland cement to the
barbel and crocodiles of Ingwenye Umkulu,
thirty miles away ; or when, later still, it rose in
protest against the impudence of man, and swept
battery houses oflf like corks, and flung the huge
girders of the railway-bridge from its path, and
tossed fifty-ton boulders like pebbles into the
Oriental water-race, seventy feet above the river's
bed.

They crossed the first channel safely ; and they/
even got through the second and worst. The
little Hottentot Piet sat tight, and handled his
team with the most perfect skill. At times it
seemed impossible that horses or trap could with-

8

114 Induna Nairn

stand the surging mass of water that piled up
against them ; but they did. A cheering word
or a timely touch of the whip seemed once or
twice to avert catastrophe.

Nairn's horse had made a perfect leader, and

faced the water like a steamboat ; but the other

seemed to be losing heart, and but for Piet's whip

would have headed down stream in the second

■channel.

They were into the third channel, and were going
slowly and steadily through, when one front wheel
came block up against a boulder, and the near
leader again headed down. Whip, voice and rein
failed, and as Piet made one more determined
effort, something gave, and he dropped back in his
seat, calling out :

' Baas, baas, the rein's broken!'

Nairn jumped up instantly, but the frightened
girl clung to him, crying out :

' Oh, don't leave me ! Mr. Nairn, for the love
of God, don't leave us !'

Her one hand grasped the collar of his coat, the
other held his right hand. He loosened her
grasp, and holding both her hands tightly, forced
her back into the seat.

' Hold that I' he said, placing her one hand on the
rail, and stooping until his face almost touched hers.*
' Sit stiU, and wait for me. I won't desert you!'

Induna Nairn 115

Vaulting over into the driver's seat, he seized the
sjambok and jumped into the river. The near
leader, free of the check of the rein, was giving
before the stream, and had turned fairly down the
river. Nairn was swept oflF his feet in an instant,
but, anticipating this, he had grasped the wheeler's
near trace, and was able to work his way forward
until he was abreast of the swerving leader. Keep-
ing with his right hand a firm grasp of the lower
trace, he shouted to the quaking animal, and struck
it sharply on the neck and jaw with the sjambok.
The suddenness of the attack startled the horse,
and he plunged up stream again. At the same
moment Piet's whip whistled overhead, and his
voice rang out ; the other three horses strained
together, and the spider rose over the stone, and,
lurching and bumping, came through the third
channel.

The excited animals rushed the last narrow strip
of water, and Nairn, stumbling over rocks as best
he could, was dragged with them, until, losing his
hold and his footing with the last plunge of the
horses, he was hurled forward on his head as they
reached the bank. One of the horses trampled him,
and two of the wheels went over his' chest. The
little Hottentot saw it all, and before the others
knew anything, he had jumped oflF, leaving the
horses to pull up as they were accustomed to on

8—2

1 1 6 Induna Nairn

the bank, and grabbed Nairn by the arm just as
he began to swing into the current and float down
stream.

* * * * *

The Bungalow was perched on the hillside, and
overlooked the camp. The thatched roof and wide
veranda made it cool and pleasant, and the view
across the great vaUey of De Kaap was grand.

Nairn's head was still bandaged, and he was
propped up on a cushioned lounge, unable to
stir.

The French window of the room opened out
upon the stoep, and from the couch itself Nairn
could overlook the camp and see the bold parapets
of the Devil's Kantoor five-and-twenty miles across
the valley.

Nairn moved his head slowly and painfully as he
heard a light footstep upon the stoep. Miss Heron
walked in with a cup of something in one hand,
and with the other grasping the folds of her riding-
habit.

' Well, how is the head V she asked, putting
down the cup and busying herself at once, fixing
the cushions more comfortably, and moistening the
lint and bandage over his temples. ' Better, aren't
you ? See, I've brought you something cool and
nice to drink. It will freshen you up again. Try
some !'

Induna Nairn 1 1 7

Nairn closed his eyes, and half turned his head
away, ignoring the offer.

' You are going out again, riding ?' he queried,
in an uncivil tone.

' Yes ; as far as the river, to see how it looks in
daylight, and in its better mood. They say it is
beginning to fall ; but it is banks over still. They
say that the morning after we crossed, Welsh, whose
house is on the rise above the drift, got out of bed
into two feet of water. He says he felt it in bed,
but thought it was only the roof leaking again. I
wish you could come with us — but you will soon,
won't you ?'

' No ; I've stayed too long already,' was the surly
answ^er, and Nairn turned his face further towards
the wall.

' To-morrow we shall be able to move you out
on to the stoep, and perhaps you will let me read
to you there ? It won't seem so lonely and dismal
then,' said Miss Kate, gently ignoring Nairn's tone.

'Thank, you!' he answered tartly; 'I don't
mind being alone. I like it !'

She had got to know his humours, and so, standi
ing back a little where he could not watch her face,
and keeping the laughter out of her voice, she
said: 'Oh!'

' Perhaps the others are ready,' he remarked after
a pause. * I am keeping you from your ride.'

ii8 Induna Nairn

' I don't think so. They promised to call for
me here.'

' Don't wait on my account, please. I don't
mind being alone.'

' So you said before. If you oilyect to my sitting
here, of course I can wait on the stoep. I thought
perhaps you liked me to be here.'

Miss Kate switched gently at her foot, but did
not move from her seat, and Nairn played a tattoo
upon the woodwork of the lounge. He broke the
silence with an impatient sigh and, after another
pause, his companion remarked airily to the oppo-
site wall :

' I wonder why sick people are called patients T

Nairn twitched visibly, but offered no explana-
tion, and there was another silence. Presently
the girl observed genially :

' You remember, Mr. Nairn, while we were
driving along that night, you were telling us about
the training of horses ? You remember, don't you ?'

' Yes,' said Nairn grumpily.

' You remember,' resumed the girl, smiling
sweetly — ' you remember telling us that you con-
sidered the various types of animals higher or
lower according to their susceptibility to kindness
and gentle treatment — ^that the horse, for instance,
stands higher than the mule or the donkey. Now,'
said she, turning to him with laughing eyes but

Induna Nairn 119

earnest mien, ' I wanted to ask you which of those
two is the one upon which patience and kindness
and good temper are most wasted.'

' You mean, whether I am a mule or an ass ?'

Nairn looked round, vainly endeavouring not to
smile.

' Oh dear, oh dear !' said Miss Kate, laughing
and moving to the door ; ' I'm afraid the poor old
head is very bad to-day ! Here are the others. I
must go. Good-bye.'

' Did you mean that I '

' Say good-bye at once, or I'll sit down again
and refuse to leave.'

' I won't ! Tell me, did '

' Good-bye, Ursa Major with the sore head, and
don't ask questions.'

The girl curtseyed to him in the doorway as she
left, and Nairn turned his face to the wall again
with a groan.

A girl knows when a man's eyes follow her
about the room, and she knows why — long before
the man does. But the man finds it out soon
enough.

Nairn pushed away the books and papers. They
had no charm for him, and, as he could not sleep,
he fell presently to tracing the design of the wall-
paper and counting how many varieties or bunches
of flowers went to make up the general pattern.

I20 Induna Nairn

He detected small irregularities in the joinings,
and they annoyed him. So he turned round and
stared at the ceiling; but he had studied that
before, and he knew which board contained the
most knots, and how many boards had apparently
been cut from the same log. There were two
boards which were twins ; so exactly did they
match, they must have been parted by but
one saw-cut ; and he speculated if there could be
'any sort of intelligence in them that could be
roused to wonder or gratitude that they, cut in
Norvjsray from one stately old pine, should pass
through many hands and yet find a resting-place
side by side ten thousand miles away in the gold-
fields of the Transvaal.

Nairn's eyelids drooped heavily. One sleepy
chuckle escaped him at his own quaint conceit, as
he wondered whether the ceiling boards considered
the flooring boards beneath them, and if they ever
put on side on that account ; and the smile of lazy
content remained long after he was fast asleep.

It was the scent of flowers that roused him.
Violets ! And he had not smelt them for twelve
years !

Miss Kate was sitting there looking at him, and,
but for the scent of the flowers and the slanting sun-
beams, he might have thought she had never left.

' Does the big bear like flowers V

Induna Nairn 121

He was too contented to do more than smile.

' And he won't eat me now ?'

' When Beauty picked the flowers, what did the
Beast do ?'

Kate looked up with a shade of alarm. She
was not quite sure where analogies might lead
them— they get to mean so much.

* Well, well,' she laughed, ' who would have
suspected you of a leaning towards fairy tales ?
Why don't you ask if I enjoyed my ride ?'

' Well, did you ?'

' Listen to him ! Well, did I ? Oh,' said Miss
Kate, pushing back her chair with a sigh of mock
despair, * you'll never learn ! It is not in you to
be ordinarily civil. Now listen, and I'll teach
you ; and now repeat after me : " I hope " '

' I hope '

' No, no' ! You must hope with greater warmth.
Say, " I hope you have enjoyed " '

' I hope you have enjoyed ' ^t^

' " Your ride immensely !" '

' Your ride immsnsely !'

' That's, better. " And I'm very glad in-
deed " '

' And I'm very glad indeed '

' " That you went out." '

' No, I'm hanged if I'll say that !'

' Mister Nairn !'

122 Induna Nairn

' No ; I don't care what you say ! I won't say
that ! I'm not going to perjure myself.'

' You must say it !'

'Not ifl die for it!'

' You won't say it to oblige me ?'

' N— no.'

There was a curious pause. Kate looked down,
saying softly :

' Well, if you won't do the first thing I have ever
asked you, I suppose I'd better go.'

Women, not excepting the very best, are often
most unfair, and sometimes even mean. Why
change in a breath from chaff to deadly earnest,
and wring a man's heart out with half a look and a
catch in the voice ? Nairn succumbed.

' No, don't go. I'll say it.'

'Well?'

* But I've forgotten the words.'

' No ; you can't have forgotten so quickly. Say,
" I'm very glad indeed that you went out." '

' I'm very glad indeed that '

'Goon!'

' That — that you've come back.'

' I can see that you want to drive me away.'

' No, don't — don't go ! " That you went out."
Heaven forgive me ! There, are you satisfied ?'

' Yes, I'm satisfied now. I hate to give in —
especially to a man.'

Induna Nairn 123

' And to a woman ?'

' Oh, I never give in to a woman. Women are
so obstinate, and they're always wrong ! What
are you laughing at ? Oh, well, I'm not like a
woman now. I'm — you know what I mean — I'm
stating the case. Besides, I meant other women.'

' Now, if I tell you something, you won't laugh
at me and point the finger of scorn and press the
heel of triumph ?'

' No, I won't.'

' Promise.'

' I promise.'

' Well, then, I am glad that you went out, and I
was a bear to grudge it to you. And you — you
have been far too good to me — far too good,'

' No, no — indeed no ! You are my charge, and
I am your nurse. And, remember, had it not been
for us you would not have been Kurt. Had it not
been for you we should not have been here. We
brought you to death's door, and you saved us. I
— I was only teasing you. I never meant '

' Kate, child, Kate !'

' Hush ! No, no — not now. Here is George.
Good-night.'

*****

Yes, truly I The — man — finds^ — it — out — soon
— enough !

*****

124 Induna Nairn

In the morning Nairn and his horse were gone,
and there was not a vestige of a trace to show
how, why, or where! It was several days later that
Geddy, who had been away for some weeks, dined
at Heron's, and, as they were sitting on the stoep
smoking and chatting, remarked :

' By the way, fancy whom I met on the way in !
Our old friend Induna Nairn, looking xghastly, poor
devil! Said he'd had a spill crossing a river or
something. Surlier than ever. Glared at me with
positive hatred when I asked him where he was
going to to escape civilization, and said, "Zambesi,
or hell." I could make nothing of him. Can't
stand chaff, you know ; never could. But I heard
all about him from old Tom CaUan — " Hot Tom,"
you know.'

Heron looked up curiously, but did not interrupt.

' It seems he's quite a great gun among the
niggers — a real Induna. Did you know that ? I
thought it was only a nickname, but it isn't. He's
a sort of relation of the king's, etc'

' What the devil are you talking about ?'

' Eh ? what ? A — a relation of the king's, I
said.'

' A relation I Nairn ?'

' Well, a connection. You know what I mean.
He married the king's favourite daughter.'

'Great God !'

V Ind una Nairn 125

' Yes, You see, we were quite on the wrong tack.
By George ! I did laugh when I heard it.'

Heron walked out on to the gravel path for a
breath of air — out to ease the choking feeling in his
throat ; and he saw his sister rise from her chair,
draw a shawl over her head, and move away to her
own room.

That night there had come to the house a little
Swazie boy. He had one very miserable fowl for
sale, and he squatted on his haunches near the
gate, heedless of the fact that his oflFer had been
twice refused. Through the night he stayed, and
into the morning, and as the hot sun swung over-
head he sat and waited still, never taking his eyes
off the front stoep. And when at last Kate came
out he tried his luck again.

She turned her armchair so as to get a good
light on her book, and began to read, but in a few
moments the child's voice close by startled her.
She looked up and saw a little black face, lighted
by bright eyes and a flash of white teeth ; in front
of that, a wretched fowl lying on the cement stoep ;
and in front of that again, a folded note bearing her
name. She picked up the note and read it.

' I had forgotten what a good woman was.
Heaven bless you, Eate ! It is not that I am
ungrateful, but I wish to Grod Piet had left me to
the river.'

126 Induna Nairn

Kate leaned back quietly in the Madeira arm-
chair, and closed her eyes. When she looked again
the little umfaan was gone ; but he had forgotten
his fowl upon the stoep, which was an unusual
thing for any umfaan to do.

CASSIDY.

' And the greatest of these is charity.'

I MET Cassidy under trying circumstances. But
it worked out all right eventually, principally
because, so far as I knew him — and that got to
be pretty well — Cassidy was not amenable to cir-
cumstances. He beat them mostly, and some of
them were pretty tough.

The circumstances surrounding our meeting
were trying, because Cassidy was in bed after a
hard day's work, and I aroused him at 3 a.m. by
firing a revolver at his bulldog. His huts were
on the railway works, and near the footpath to
Jim Mackay's canteen — a pretty hot show. He
used to be roused this way every Saturday and
Sunday, and occasionally throughout the week,
by visitors, black and white, warlike and friendly,
thieving and sociable, but^all drunk. At first he
got a bulldog, but they got to know him, and
after awhile the tip went round that half a pound

128 Cassidy

of beafsteak was a good buy and better than a
blunderbuss for Cassidy's Cutting, Then he
loaded fifty No. 12's with coarse salt, mixed with
pebbles and things, and, as he said to me after-
wards :

' Ye were the fourth that night, and ye 'noyed
me wid yer swearin' an' shootin' an' that, so I just
passed the salt an' wint for the dust shot as bein'
more convincing like ; but the divil an' all of it
was, I couldn't get the cartridge in by reason of
drawin' the charge that was there already. Too
bad ! too bad ! for dust shot it was, av I'd only
known it, an' me thinkin' it was nothin' but salt.
Lord, Lord ! we're a miscontented lot ! Av it
wasn't for bein' greedy, I'd 've had ye wid the
dust shot safe as death. Faith, ye niver know
yer luck !'

That was aU right from his point of view, but
as I had left my horse dying of Dikkop sickness
just this side of Kilo 26, and had walked along
the formation carrying saddle and bridle up to
Kilo 43 — about ten miles — ^without a drink, and
twice lost my way between unconnected sections,
and twice walked over the ends of the formation
where culverts should have been and rolled down
twenty feet of embankment, and once got bogged
in a bottoming pit in a vlei, and many times
hacked my shins against wheelbarrows, and piles

Cassidy ,129

of picks stacked on the track, I think it was
reasonable to let out at a bulldog that came at
me like a hurricane out of the darkness and
silence of 3 a.m. in the Bush veld, to say nothing
of a half-finished railway cutting. And I think
it only human to have cursed the owner with all
my resources until the dog was called off.

I don't exactly know how it came about, but I
slept in Cassidy's hut that night. He pushed
me in before him, guiding me to the bed with a
hand on each elbow. He said that there were no
matches in the show and that it wasn't , worth
while looking ifor the candle, which, as he had
no means of lighting it, I suppose it wasn't.

He had a rare brogue and a governing nasal
drone, but it was the brogue that emboldened me
to ask for whisky.

' Spirits !' said he ; ' not a drop, an' niver have ;
but jist sit ye where ye are, an' I'll fetch ye out
some beer — Bass's, no less, ay ye'U thry that ; an^l
can dhrink from the bottle.'

He talked in jerks, and had a quaint knack of
chucking remarks after an apparently completed
sentence, evidently intending them to catch up
to it and be tacked on. He dived under the bed
somewhere, and a minute later I heard the
squeaking of a corkscrew and the popping of a
cork.

9

1 30 Cassidy

' Here y' are,' said he, as he pressed the bottle
into my two hands ; ' drink hearty, me lad, and
praise yer God Dan O'ConneU there's got too fat
an' lazy to puUye down.'

I dare say he knew what he was talking about,
but, for my part, I confess that nothing in the
whole business had impressed me less than any
lack of earnestness on Dan O'ConneU's part. I
sat awhile munching biscuits from a tin which he
had placed on the table and gurgling down beer
from the bottle. Cassidy was asleep. Ten
minutes passed, and I was finishing the beer,
when he sat up again, as I judged from the
sound, and remarked in a brisk, clear tone :

' Ye called me a mud-doUopin', dyke-diggin',
Amsterdam'd Dutchman ! Ye'U take back the
Dutchman, I believe ?'

' I wUl indeed,' T said, laughing.

' An' the mud V

' Yes, and the mud.'

He settled himself in the bunk again with a
grunt, and murmured in a tone of indignant
contempt :

' Mud, sez he, mud ! An' me shiftin' granite
boulders for soft rock, an shtruck solid formation
a fut from surface, an' getting two an' six a cubic
fer the lot ! Mud, faith ! An' not enough water
this three miles to the Crocodile to make spit for

Cassidy 131

an ant, barrin' what I can tap from the Figaro
Battery pipe ! An' .mud, sez he ? Holy Fly !
Mud, be Gawd 1'

It died away in a sleepy grunt, and Cassidy
was off. I groped about for a blanket, and, roll-
ing back into the meal-sack stretcher, forgot all
about mad Irishmen, sick horses, and earnest
bulldogs.

*****

One always experiences a curious sensation
on seeing by daylight that which one has only
known in the dark. Persons do for years a
certain journey or voyage, always starting and
always arriving at regular hours. One day
something happens which necessitates their pass-
ing in daylight the places formerly passed at
night. On such occasions even the most matter-
of-fact must marvel at the wanton freaks of their
imaginations. The real thing seems so inconceiv-
ably wrong after what the mind had pictured.
The appearance of a room, the outside of a house,
are ludicrously, hopelessly at variance with what
one had thought they should be. But it is, if
possible, worse when the subject is a person. I
have many times travelled with men at night by
coaqh, on horseback, on foot, and in a waggon ;
have chatted sociably and exchanged all manner
of friendly turns ; have slept at the same wayside

9—2

132 Cassidy

hotel, and in the morning found myself unable,
until he spoke, to pick out of any two the one
with whom I had spent hours the night before.

In the case of Cassidy the difference was ap-
palling.

I awoke in such light as might leak through
the grass hut ; which was very little for light, but
not bad for leakage.

The boy brought breakfast — coffee, bread, and
cold venison, which suited me well — and I was
turning my thoughts to the matter of a fresh
horse for my homeward journey when I met the
eye of one of my friends of the previous night.
I say the eye, because I don't count the one in
the black patch — I couldn't see it. But when Dan
O'ConneU stood in the doorway and allowed his
one bloodshot, pink-rimmed eye to rest thotight-
fully on me, it fairly fixed me. I used to recall
his bandy legs and undershot jaw long after-
wards whenever I thought of Cassidy's Cutting ;
but it was only when the luminous eye uprose
before me that I used unconsciously to twitch
about and draw my legs up as I did the morning
I saw him in the flesh. Cassidy was a surprise ;
O'ConneU wasn't. His appearance was only the
cold chill of proof following a horrible conviction.
I was much relieved when the boy cleared Dan
out of the doorway with a bare-toed kick in the

Cassidy 133

ribs and a vigorous ' Ow ! Foosack !' I admired
the boy for that, and even envied him.

Through the open doorway I saw a white man
walking briskly towards the hut, and I stepped
out to meet him. He was a man of medium
height, but there was something in his walk and
figure that arrested attention. I am sure I have
never seen in any man such lithe, active move-
ment and perfect symmetry. A close-fitting vest
and a pair of white flannel trousers were what
he wore. I remember that because, somehow,
I always recall that first view in the morning
light — the springy walk, the bare muscular arms,
the curve of the chest, and the poise of the head,
as the face was turned from me.

If I could tell this story without saying another
word about his appearance, I would stop right
here. I would greatly prefer to do so, but it is
not possible. I hope no one will feel exactly
as I felt when this man turned his face to me.
It serves no good purpose to give; revolting de-
tails, so I will only say that the man was dis-
figured — most horribly so.

I cannot recall what was said or done during
the few minutes that passed after we met, but
there are some impressions seared into my brain
as with red-hot irons; there are some recollections
which even now make me feel faint and dazed,

1 34 Cassidy

and some which make me burn with shame. I
take shame — bitter, burning shame — that I failed
to grasp his outstretched hand, and that I let
him read in my face the hoiror that seized me.
It is one of those pitiful things that the longest
lifetime is not long enough to let a man forget.
Surging across this comes the vivid recollection
of my conviction that this man was Cassidy. The
first instant my glance lighted on him I felt what
I can only call a sort of joyous conviction that it
was he. I felt, in fact, that I recognised him.
No doubt it seems odd, illogical, contradictory,
even impossible, that, strong as the gratifying
conviction was, the other, when he turned his
face to me, was a thousand times stronger.
It ought to have been a reversal of the first
conviction. It wasn't. It was a smashing,
terrible corroboration. It crushed me with a
sense of personal affliction. It never germinated
a doubt.

I had to stay all that day with him, and he
was most gentle and courteous ; most kindly and
considerate. Every act heaped coals of fire on
my ill-conditioned head. God knows I tried my
best, but I could hardly look in his face, and I
could not control my physical repugnance. I
schooled myself to speak, and even to look, with-
out betraying my thoughts, but I could not eat

Cassidy 135

with him. I could not sit opposite a face half of
which was gone ; I could not use the plate, the
cup, the fork, that he had used. I pleaded ill-
ness, and feigned it ; but by night-time I was ill
enough to need no feigning.

It was common enough for anyone benighted
on those unhealthy flats to pay the penalty with a
dose of fever. I got fever, and no one seemed
surprised ; but for the life of me I cannot even
now help attaching some significance to the fact
that I was certainly not ill before the scene at
the hut door.

I lay in that grass hut for a week or more,
some of the time delirious — ^all the time panting
with fever and shivering with ague ; tossing wake-
fully and gasping for air ; complaining of every-
thing, unutterably miserable and despondent;
hating the sight of food, shrinking from each act
of kindness, scowling at the sound of a voice, My
case was not worse than hundreds of others. I
mention these things only to make clear what I
mean when I say that never at any moment
during that time did I awake or want anything
but Cassidy was there to tend me. His was the
care, the watchfulness, the gentleness, of a good
woman. Can one say more ?

It is odd that during that time I only saw him
as he ought to have been — as I am sure at one

136 Cassidy

time he had been — a man whose countenance
matched his character. It is not so odd, perhaps,
that as I recovered and became rational the
feehng of repulsion did not return, only an infinite
pity for a hardly-stricken fellow-creature whose
physical endowments and whose prospects must
have been far above the average, and whose afflic-
tion was proportionately great.

When I left there was one feeling that was
stronger than simple gratitude to him. It was
thankfulness that something had occurred to
prevent me from leaving with only horror and
repulsion. I was thankful for the sickness that
left me richer by a heart ftiU of pity and — I think
the right word is — reverence !

TP ^ TT nr

My lines were laid in other places than
Cassidy's, and as months passed by without my
either seeing or hearing of him, I might, for
aught I know, have forgotten him, or come to
recall him only as one recalls, after lapse of
years, some curious experience. This might have
happened, I say ; but it didn't. Mainly because
of a conversation which revived my keenest inter-
est in him.

Several of us had walked out to dine and spend
the evening a,t the Chaunceys', and as we sat on
the stoep smoking and chatting, the ladies being

Cassidy 1 37

with us, the conversation turned on a concert or
entertainment of some kind which was being got
up for the relief af some distressed families in the
place. Somebody hazarded the opinion that the
' distressed family ' business was being somewhat
overdone, and that there was no evidence of it as
far as he had been able to see.

The remark was unfortunate, for Mrs. Chauncey
happened to be one of the promoters of the charity.
She — good little woman ! — had her young matron's
soul full of sympathy still ; her store had not
been plundered by impostors, and she vehemently
defended her project. She did more ; she carried
war and rout into the enemy's quarters and sur-
mised that men, young men, whose lives are
divided between money -making and pleasvu-e-
seeking, are not the best judges of what those
who keep their troubles to themselves may have
to endure.

'When you' (the young men) 'are settling
differences on shares or cards, or having your
occasional splits — or whatever else you do all day
long — there are women and children aching for
one good meal, shrinking back for want of ordinary
clothing, languishing and dropping for want of a
man's arm tp fend and support them.' ,#

Jack Chauncey — good chap ! — must have
thought this from his wife just a wee bit spirited,

138 Cassidy

for, after a pause, he gently drew a herring across
the trail.

' By - the - by, dear,' he asked thoughtfully,
' what became of that good-looking young widow
who came here with her kid and looked so jolly
miserable ? By Gad ! her face has been haunting
me ever since. Did you manage anything for
her ?'

'You mean Mrs. Mallandane. She would not
take anything. She wanted to work; to earn,
not to beg, she said. I have managed to get her
some needlework, but, oh, so little, poor thing!
And the pay is too dreadful ! Now, there is a
case in point. A widow, absolutely penniless,
with a child of four or five to support. A woman
of education and breeding, without a friend in the
world, apparently; shunned by everyone — by some
on account of her poverty, by others for her good
looks and reserve. She certainly is difficult to
approach. I have been to her now four times, and
it was only on the last occasion that she thawed
enough to tell me anything of herself She has
lived for years on what she believed to be the
proceeds of her husband's estate. Until within
the last few months she was under this im-
pression. But something happened which made
her suspicious, and she found out that the income
left by her husband was pure fiction, and that what

Cassidy 139

she had been living on was an allowance from the
only real friend she or her husband ever had —
the man who was her husband's partner when he
died.'

' Does she say that her husband is dead ?' asked
Carter, the unfortunate 'young man' who had
before provoked Mrs. Chauncey's ire.

Carter was very young, and I could see that he
had no arriere pensee in asking that question. He
did not mean to be impertinent. But I could also
see that Mrs. Chauncey did not take that view.
Her little iced reply finished poor Carter.

' I said that she was a widow, Mr. Carter, and
I do not care to make another's misfortunes the
subject of an argument.'

I felt sorry for Carter, he was such an ass ;
and I believe the other two fellows pitied him
also ; so we did not refer to the subject as we
walked home together in the moonlight. That,
however, did not suit Carter. After awhile he
gave an uncomfortable laugh, and said :

'The little woman was rather down on me
to-night about the charity show. I rather put
my foot in it, I think.'

' Think !' said Lawton (one of our party), with
heavy contempt. ' Think ! I wonder you claim
to be able to think ! I never in my life saw any-
one make such a blighted idiot of himself !'

140 Cassidy

' Dash it all, man ! give me a chance. The
" distressed family " allusion was unlucky, I admit;
but I hadn't the faintest intention of returning to
the subject when I asked about the husband.
Man alive ! Why, the nerve of the Mallandane
woman fairly knocked the breath out of me. The
cheek of her cramming poor Mrs. Chauneey with
yarns of her husband's death and estate, when
everyone knows that he isn't dead at all ; that
she gave him the slip, and went off with the
" only friend " — his, partner ! A man with half
his face eaten away by disease. I've seen the
fellow at the house myself Old Larkin, of the
Bank, knew them in Kimberley. They were
claim-holders and contractors there and used to
bank with him. The firm was Cassidy and
Mallandane. I only wonder she continues to call
herself Mallandane. It's a formality she might.
as well have dispensed, with.'

I knew Carter to be a gossipy young devil, so
I held my peace about Cassidy ; but it was with
an effort. My impulse was to give Carter the
lie direct, but I remembered Mrs. Chauncey's last
words and refrained.

We walked along in silence, and after a while
Carter stopped in the road opposite a small
house, the door of which stood partly open.
There were voices outside, and as Carter said,

Cassidy 141

' Hush ! listen !' we stopped instiBctively, and my
heart sank as I recognised a voice that said
' Good-night.' I moved on hastily, disgusted at
being trapped into eavesdropping, and Carter
laughed.

' That's the only friend ! There's no mistaking
that. But I wondei" why he's coming away,'
said the youth, with unmistakable and insinu-
ating emphasis on the last words.

No one answered his self-satisfied cackling,
I was listening to the brisk walk behind us. I
would have known it in a million. Closer and closer
it came ; his sleeve brushed mine as he stepped
lightly past. I let him go, and I don't know why.
But I felt like a whipped cur for doing it.

It seemed to me that I must heretofore have
been living in extraordinary ignorance of what
was going on round about me in a small place ;
for, as though it only needed the start, from
the first mention of this story by Carter I was
always hearing it, or a similar one, or one half
corroborating it.

I made an effort to see Cassidy the first thing
next morning, but he had left his hotel — pre-
sumably having gone out to the works again.
After a day or two had passed I felt glad that I
had not met him — ^glad because I felt sure that
he would have noticed that there was something

142 > Cassidy

wrong. He would instinctively have detected the
cordiality and confidence which were controlled
by an efibrt of will, and were not— as they should
have been, and as they did again become — spon-
taneous and real.

This worried me exceedingly and I turned it
over and over again to get at the truth, and
eventually it came to this. I knew that they
were right as to the cause of his disfigurement ;
it was impossible to look at him and not accept
it. I had no high moral prejudices about this.
I only pitied him the more. But I did not believe
a word of the rest of the story. All presumption
and a heap of circumstances were against me,
but I am glad to say that, but for the first hesi-
tation, I never, never doubted him.

It may have been a week or two after this that I
met Mrs. Chauncey in camp one afternoon. I had
not seen her since the evening already referred
to, and, as it was an off afternoon, I asked leave
to join her in her walk home.

We wandered on slowly through the outskirts
of the camp, along the most direct road to the
Chaunceys' house. Since I had heard and seen
what I had that evening my interest in Mrs. Mal-
landane had increased. I never passed the house
without looking. I claim — even to myself — that it
was real interest and not curiosity that prompted

Cassidy 143

me. Once or twice I had seen the figure in
simple black, but not su£B.ciently clearly to have
known the face again. Her figure I don't think
I should have mistaken ; it was rather striking.
There was also a little girl who used to sit under
a mimosa-tree studying her lessons or doing sums
on a slate. She and I became friends. I was
drawn to the youngster because, when passing
one day, I took the unwarrantable liberty of
looking over her shoulder to see what the sum
was. After a decent pause, during which I
might have taken the hint, she turned up at me
a very serious little face lighted by large blue
eyes, and hsped slowly :

' I don't like people to thtand behind, becauth
I fordet my thums.'

I laughingly patted the little head, and went
on ; but after this I always stopped to chaff my
little Mend about her 'thums,' and I generally
brought an offering of some sort — sweets, cake,
or firuit.

Thinking af the house and its people as we
walked along, I was not sorry when Mrs. Chauncey
asked if I would mind waiting for a minute or
two while she went in to see her protegee about
some work secured or promised.

I sat down in my little friend's seat and waited.
I had not long to wait. Presently I heard behind

144 Cassidy

me the awkward tiptoeing of a child trying to
walk very silently. Like Brer Rabbit, I lay low.
Then came the climbing on to the seat, and finally
a pair of chUdish hands were clapped over my
eyes to an accompaniment of half- suppressed
squeals of laughter, broken by panting efforts to
maintain the blind-folding hug. I' was busily
keeping up the illusion by extravagantly bad
guesses as to who it was, when I heard the
rustle of a dress, and someone ran out, calling :

* MoUy, Molly ! how can you be so naughty,
darling ? Oh, do excuse her !'

I was released. My hat was in the dust and
my hair rumpled. I saw Mrs. Chauncey in the
background in peals of laughter ; Mrs. Mallandane
before me, looking most concerned, and holding
the bewUdered Molly by the hand ; and Molly
vindicating herself by saying with much dignity :

' Mother, it's only the gentimeU that dooth
my thumth an' kitheth me.'

As a defence this was, of course, adequate — not
to say excellent ; but it was rather embarrassing
for Biie. It was so effective, however, that I was
spared the necessity of saying anything myself
Mrs. Chauncey introduced me to her protegee as
she would have done to any of her lady friends,
and the protegee bowed, as it seemed to me, with
a great deal more grace and quite as much easy

Cassidy 145

composure as the best of them. That was my
first thought. The next was to take myself in-
dignantly to task for instituting a comparison.

As we resumed our walk I was wondering what
could be the tie between this woman and Cassidy,
There was no mistaking her class. She was a
gentlewoman to her finger-tips. I was roused
from my rather discourteous distraction by Mrs.
Chauncey saying :

'You are not so surprised now, perhaps, that
I lost my temper with Mr. Carter the other
evening. I am sorry I spoke as I did, but I felt
it deeply — indeed I did.'

' I can well understand it,' I answered.

' How do you like her ?' she asked abruptly.

' What ! after an interview of two minutes—
and such an interview ?'

Mrs. Chauncey smUed, and said :

' Well, I only wanted to know your impression.
And, after aU, you have had time to form one, for
you have been thinking of her all the time since
we left the house !'

' Perfectly true — I have. And to speak can-
didly, I think I have seldom — indeed, I think,
never — seen a face that interested me more ;
partly, I suppose, because of what you told us.
And I don't think I have ever seen anyone look so
infinitely sad. It is a pitiful, haunting face,'

10

146 Cassidy

' I feel that also. I have never been able to
forget her look since she came to me a month
ago for work — needlework or any work. I will
never believe that she could be an impostor.
No, no ! Truth is stamped in her face — truth
and sorrow.'

I had always liked Mrs. Chauncey. Just at
that moment I was mentally patting her on the
back and calling her ' a little brick,' for it was
clear that she too had heard something^ — heard
it and passed it by. Good woman !

I was a bachelor, and not too old to feel ; and,
over and above my interest in Cassidy, this whole
affair fascinated me considerably. From this time
forward I never passed the house without greeting
mother or child with sincere warmth, or missing
them with an equally genuine sense of disappoint-
ment. I never met Mrs. Chauncey without in-
quiring with interest the latest news of her friend
and all details of her affairs.

There was never much to tell. Now it was
some commission for a dress, now the mending of
children's clothes — another time the trimming of
hats or working a tennis-net, that helped to make
ends meet without hurt to her pride. These
were petty details which might pass in woman's
chat, but should fail to interest a man, you would
think. Nevertheless, they interested me. They

Cassidy 147

did more. In the evenings, as I sat alone and
smoked out in the starlight they helped me to
conjure up pictures and to see her as she would
at those very moments, perhaps, be employed.

I would have done anything to help her had
I been able, but there was nothings I could do.
I had even learned that I might not as much
as evince -sympathy or interest, except at the
cost of insult to her. Oh one occasion when I
happened to meet and walk with her in one of
the main streets of the camp, I was frigidly cut by
two ladies with whom I thought I was on quite
friendly terms. This disturbed me considerably,
not on my own account, but because of the insult
and injustice to one who was powerless to resent
it. It hurt me even more to realize that it would
be wise to bow before this and prove greater
friendship by showing less.

I was still smarting under this next morning
when I was accosted by one of those puddle-
headed, blundering idiots of whom there seem to
be one or more in any community, no matter how
smaU.

'I say, old chap,' he began, 'look here, ye
know ! You're not playin' the game, ye know,
old chap ! The missis has been complainin' to me
about you. You know what I mean.'

I detest this ' dontcherknow,' * g '-dropping

10—2

T48 Cassidy

kind of animal at any time — the thing that ,
fondles you with ' old chap ' and ' dear boy ' and
refers to its wife as ' the missis.' But apart from
this, I was to-day especially unprepared to submit
to further outrage. I was still smarting, as I said
before.

' My good man,' I said, * may I ask you to be
more explicit V

' Why, dash it aU, old chap ! you know what I
mean — er. It's no affair of mine, of course, if you
only keep it quiet, don't you know. But you
don't give one a chance, don't you know ; and,
after all, you can't run with the hare and hunt
with the hounds, and aU that sort of thing, don't
you know !'

I was trying to keep my temper, but with no
very marked success, I fear ; but I said as calmly
as I could :

' That's a very original remark, my friend, and
no doubt equally intelligent, but I shall be pleased
if you will be good enough to apply it so that /
can understand it.'

' Look here, old chap. If you will go a,nd walk
in broad daylight with a woman like that, you
know — weU, you can't expect '

' Stop now 1' I said. I had hardly breath
enough to speak, and there must have been some-
thing unpleasant in my face, for he stepped back

Cassidy 149

a pace or two. ' So far you aye only a babbling
fool. If you go on now you will be an infernal
cad and must take the consequences. You
understand what I mean. And further, as you
have been good enough to hint that I should
choose my line, I may tell you — to adopt your
happy illustration — that I elect to " run with the
hare." You see ! Perhaps you understand what
I mean !'

Now, before two minutes had, passed, I did not
need anyone to tell me that I had done, the worst
and most unwise thing possible under the circum-
stances. Of course I knew well enough that
when a woman is concerned two things are veiy
essential — that the man shall keep his temper,
and that he shall be judicious, even circumspect,
in defending. Having failed in the former, I
necessarily failed in the latter, and I felt sick
with impotent rage when I realized it.

I knew how the story would circulate, and I
knew exactly how it would be touched up,
amplified, and illustrated with graphic gesticula-
tions when it reached the club and Exchange and
passed through the hands of certain expert racon-
teurs ; and to avoid the lamentable result of chaff
and further provocation I got away for a couple of
days to give myself — and the story — a chance.

Several weeks passed after this incident, during

150 Cassidy

which I saw but little of Mrs. Mallandane, and
heard not much more. Occasionally I heard of
Cassidy from men coming up the line. In spite
of his grumbling and seeming discontent with the
nature of the country in his section nobody
believed that Cassidy's Cutting was such a very
unprofitable job as he gave out. Cassidy was, too
old a hand to be drawn into any admission
which could be used against him for the purpose
of cutting down prices in future contracts. Those
best able to judge put him down to make close on
£10,000 out of that job. His section lay some
sixty miles from Barberton, and, as far as I
knew, he had been into camp only twice during
the five months that had passed since I had first
met him. One occasion was the night on which
I had seen him ; the other when he called at the
office to see me. I was out of camp that day
and missed him. I do not know how often he
may have been in besides those two occasions.

Mrs. Chauncey and I were real fi-iends. Jack
was one of my oldest chums, and when he
married I found — what does not necessarily
follow — that his wife was just one to strengthen
the friendship and not weaken it. With regard
to her, I felt that if an occasion should arise re-
quiring that I should make a confidante of any
woman Mrs. Chauncey would be the one. I

Cassidy * 151

don't know that I ever realized this sufficiently
forcibly to express it even to myself until after
a remark which she made to me about this time.

She had been telling me some little thing about
Mrs. Mallandane, and I may have shown by my
attention — -perhaps even by questions — more
interest than she expected or thought called for.
There was quite a long silence, during which
I felt that she was thinking of something con-
cerning me. When she turned towards me her
expression was one of almost tender consideration,
and in the gentlest possible voice she said :

' It is good to be kind and generous, and to
help those who need it ; but when a man means
to help a woman it should be clear to him from
day to day, from hour to hour, not only how far he
means to go, but also what she will understand.'

The words went home to me, and I suppose I
showed it, for she added a Httle nervously :

' You must not mind that from me. " Faithful
are the wounds of a friend." '

' Taken as meant, Mrs. Chauncey ; and-^thank
you !' I meant it.

I made a careful and impartial examination of
conscience that night when I had the silence and
darkness to favour me ; and although I honestly
acquitted myself, there was just the faintest sug-
gestion of the finding of the Irish jury : ' We find

152 Cassidy

the prisoner not guilty ; but he's not to do it again.'
I told myself again that Mrs. Chauncey was a
* little brick ' for her timely and well-judged
warning ; for I thought it was quite possible that
I might have drifted on and ' gone soft ' before
"knowing it. I am satisfied that there was no
cause for alarm, as the resolution to 'ease up'
cost me neither efibrt nor pang.

I abided fairly by the spirit of my unspoken
pact. I changed my daily route to one that did
ijqt lead past Mrs. Mallandane's house. I ceased
to talk of her ; I even tried not to think of her.
But just there I failed— for the effort to forget
makes occasion to remember.

*****

It was the tail end of summer. The heat was
terrible, and in all the outlying parts — even in
the lower portions of the camp — malarial fever was
prevalent. The accounts from the line were par-
ticularly bad, nearly all the engineers, con-
tractors, and sub-contractors being more or less
laid up by attacks of the summer fiend. One of
the engineers suffering from a mild attack was
brought in, and, being at the hotel when he
arrived, I heard accounts of what was going on.
He told me that Cassidy had had attack after
attack, but that he would neither lie up there nor
come into hospital. It was work, work, work,

Cassidy 153

with him, all day and night, except when he was
looking after others — and, in truth, his camp was
a kind of improvised hospital. Cassidy, he said,
with his superb strength and physique would not
give in. He would not believe that fever could
beat a man who was game, and he fought it.

There was no suitable conveyance to be got
before night, so I arranged to start after dark, for
I was determined to do something to repay the
kindness I had had at Cassidy 's hands. I took a
serious view of his case, for I knew how these
things usually ended, and he was not going to die
without an effort on my part to save him.

I walked home that night worrying considerably
about poor Cassidy and wishing to Heaven that
the trap was ready to start at once. I had
reached the crossing-stones in the little stream,
where my old and new paths forked out. It was
dusk, and I was not thinking of whom I might
meet, so I started at the sight of Mrs. Mallandane
a few paces off coming towards me, evidently to
meet me.

' Oh, I have waited for hours to meet you !' she
began without any ceremony, and talking nervously
and fast. ' I thought you had gone already, and
yet I feared to annoy you by going to your office.
Look here — look ! Tell me, is this true ? Oh,
you can't see — I forgot; it's too dark. Here in

154 Cassidy

the paper they say you are going down the line
to-night to bring in someone who is ill, very ill
with fever. Tell me, is it true ?'

' It is quite true. I leave to-night after nine,'
I answered — I hope without betraying surprise;
but 1 could not help noticing that she did not
mention Cassidy's name, and that she was pain-
fully excited. I drew no conclusions — I had no
time for thought ; but these things left a weight
on my heart for aU that, and it was not lightened
as she went on.

' I have come to ask you something. You wiU
please bring him to my house. I must nurse him!
He must come to me !' This was not a favour
sought, it was rather a direction given, and there
was only the slightest note of interrogation in her
voice. I could only repeat in surprise :
' To your house, Mrs. MaUandane T
' Yes — yes ! You will do that for me, please ?'
' I am sorry, but I do not think that would be
right. His place is clearly in the hospital, and I
have no i-ight to take him elsewhere.'

' You refuse ? Oh, you cannot refuse me !'
' Mrs. MaUandane, you put it very harshly.
You must see that I cannot do otherwise. I
know of nothing to justify me in not sending him
to hospital. It wiU be better for him, and far
better for you.'

Cassidy 155

She drew a sharp breath and faced me drawn
up to her full height, looking me straight in the
eyes.

' I half expected this,' she said. ' I only asked
you because I feared to worry him. Your refusal
is nothing. He wUl come to me all the same.
You will not refuse to take a letter to him, will
you, if I detain you a few minutes longer ?'

We were quite close to her little cottage, and
as we walked towards it I tried to soften my
refusal as best I could. She, however, did not
seem to hear me.

She left me seated in the little parlour. There
was no light in the room, but she carried in a
lamp from an adjoining one ; and I have never
been so struck by a face as I was by hers when
the glow of the lamp lighted it up. The charm
of her beauty was not one whit abated — for
beautiful she was ; and yet there was only one
thing to- be read in her face, and that was
resolution. It lay in her lips, the curve of the
nostrils, a peculiar look in the eye, and a certain
poise of the head. In very truth, she looked
superb.

I sat waiting while the minutes passed, and
not a sound broke the perfect silence in the house.
Everything was so still that it seemed as if there
could be no one within mUes of me.

156 Cassidy

There was a book on the table before me, and I
took it up unthinkingly. It opened where a
cabinet-sized photograph had been left in it — as ^
marker I suppose. The photograph showed the
head and shoulders of a man, and the face shown
in fuU was one of the gayest and most resolute
that I ever remember to have seen. There was
something very attractive about it, and there was,
as I thought, a faiiit suggestion of somebody I
had known or seen. It was a good face, splendidly,
strong and honest, and, from a man's . point of
view, a right handsome face too.

, To look at a photograph uninvited may be an
impertinence ; to read the inscription on the back
certainly is. And yet these are things which one
is apt to do unthinkingly and even instinctively.
I turned the photograph round and read :

' O death, where is thy sting ? grave, where
is thy victory ?' and under that a date. I put it
back in the book, feeling that I had been prying
into the secrets of a woman's grief

Presently I heard a chair pushed back in the
next room and Mrs. MaUandane's step approaching.
She handed me a closed note.

' You will give that to him, please,' she said
politely, but very firmly. ' He will come here if
he receives it ; but it Is possible that he may
still be delirious, and if so, I only ask you again

Cassidy 157

if you will be good enough to bring him to
me.'

With the knowledge which after-events have
given me it is difficult to say whether I was con-
cerned only for Cassidy 's health and Mrs. Mallan-
dane's good name, or whether I was not pricked
to anxiety by some other feeling. My heart did
sink at her suggestion, I don't know whether
through selfishness or something better. I felt
that I was beginning to yield before her evident
purpose, but my answer was evasive. I said I did
not see how I could promise anything.

She waved that impatiently aside. I recall
the motion of her hand, as though she could
literally brush such things away. She came a
step nearer to me, the light shone full in her face,
on the waves of her hair, on her slightly-parted
lips, and glinted and flashed back from her eyes.
For half a minute she stood so looking at me, and
I was conscious of the grip of her hand on the
back of a chair, and of the rise and fall of her
breast as she breathed.

' You know him ! You have seen him ?' she
queried in a low, deliberate voice.

' Yes,' I answered.

' You know he is disfigured ?'

I could barely answer again, ' Yes.'

' When I tell you, then, that / am the cause of

158 Cassidy

that, will you deny me the privilege of any
reparation I can make ?'

The words met me like a blow in the face. I
was crushed ! God knows what I would have
done but that I saw the flame of colour that
leapt into her face, and the trembling and quiver-
ing of her lips. I gasped out :

' No, no ! I will do it.'

She seemed so upset, so unsteady, that I made
a half-step towards her, but she motioned me
back, saying :

' Go now — go ! Please go, and leave me.'

A hundred thoughts were surging and churning
in my head as I drove down the long, long valley
of the Lampogwana River that night. I felt as
miserable as man need feel. Everything seemed
wrong — most of it horribly so — but turn as I
might from one phase to another, the one thing
always recurred, pervading, dominating every-
thing : ' I am the cause of that.' , The words
rang in my ears again and again, and the horrible
significance shamed me afresh each time, always
to be answered by something which said, ' No,
I will believe ! I will trust !'

Poor Cassidy was very, very bad when I reached
him, and his lucid intervals were far between.
His appearance was terrible, the ghastly paUor
adding, as I had thought nothing' could add, to

Cassidy ' 159

the face from which one eye, the nose, half the
upper lip, and portion of one cheek, were gone.
It was terrible — truly terrible !
, There is no need to dwell on it all. I got him
in and he lived for five days. Fever didn't kill
him ; it couldn't have ; he was too strong and too
stout-hearted. It was haemorrhage resulting from
some old injury received in an accident years before.
The doctor told me that when the artery had gone
Cassidy knew he would be dead in a few minutes.
He begged the doctor to leave him, and turning
to Mrs. MaUandane, asked her to cover his face
with a handkerchief, and to hold his hand. He
said to her, ' God bless you, Molly I Good-bye I'
and died like the man he was.
' Mrs. Chauncey was the real friend in that time
of need. It was she who had supplied everything
that an invalid could want ; it was she who stayed
all that long night through with Mrs. MaUandane,
who went with her to the funeral and stood by
her, and stayed with her when all was over.

The day after the funeral I sat in my office
dazed and stupefied with worrying and puzzling
over many things in connection with these people
whose affairs and whose lives seemed to have
become Suddenly entangled with mine. Not the
least of my worries was the document before me,
which was Cassidy's will : ' I give everything

i6o Cassidy

absolutely to Mary Mallandane,' and nominating
me as his executor.

I dreaded the first interview — so much so, in
fact, that I got Mrs. Chauncey to go with me.
The tall black figure and the excessive pallor of
her face smote very hard on my heart, but I was
relieved by the presence of little MoUy, who stuck
to me from the time I entered the room until
Mrs. Mallandane sent her away. I had already
stated my object in calling when she sent Molly
out, and I was about to resume, when she asked
me abruptly :

' Do you know anything of his past life V

' Nothing whatever,' I said.

'Nor of mine?'

' No, Mrs. Mallandane.'

She laid a hand on one of Mrs. Chauncey's, who
was sitting near, and said gravely :

' You, who have been my friend, know nothing
either. It is right that you should — that you
both should.'

We were sitting at a table in the parlour ; the
writing materials were lying on it ready for my
use. The two ladies sat close together opposite me.

I cannot give Mrs. MaUandane's own words,
nor can I convey her manner when telling us the
story of her life. Sometimes she would talk in a
subdued monotone, teUing, with an absence of

Cassidy 1 6 1

feeling that was infinitely pathetic, of their
troubles. Sometimes she would be roused to a
pitch of feeling that left her voice but a husky
whisper. Once— just once — I fancied there was
the faintest trace of contempt in her tone when
referring to — well, not to Cassidy. If it was so,
it was at any rate instantly lost in a flow of pity.

This is substantially what she told us. MaUan-
dane and Cassidy had owned claims in the Kim-
berley or one of the neighbouring mines, and were
in fact partners doing business together. They
were both young Irishmen, and had come out on
the same boat some years before — which were
considered sufficient reasons for their entering
into partnership. Cassidy was the one with the
brains, money, and work ; and, from what I
gathered, there seems to have been no reason,
except Cassidy 's good -nature, for the alliance
with Mallandane at all. However, they pros-
pered, and MaUandane went home for a trip, and
married and brought his wife back to Kimberley.

For a couple of years aU went well — in fact,
until the firm began to lose money. Eeverses
only stimulated Cassidy to harder work and more
cheery, indomitable effort. You couldn't beat
him. But it was different with Mallandane. All
his wife said was that he lost heart; used to go
away day after day and night after night to

11

162 f Cassidy

where he could forget his worries — drinking and
gambling. When Cassidy first recognised that
his partner was falling, he gave up his own house,
suggesting that it would be doing him (Cassidy)
a good turn if they would let him board with
them. He gave himself up to a splendid effort to
save his partner from ruin.

For a time it answered, but MaUandane, besides
being naturally unstable, must have been bitten
by drink, for he broke out again, and nothing
either wife or friend could do could save him.
There came scenes — brutality and insult to the
wife, ingratitude and insult to the friend. She
told us nothing except in pity and forgiveness of
her dead husband— nothing, that is, that justice
to Cassidy did not require ; but it is not difficult
to imagine what happened, and, indeed, I know
now that it was only the pitiful helplessness of
the wife and chUd, and the knowledge that his
presence was food, and even life, to them, that
held Cassidy to his partner ; for in his fits of
drunkenness Mallandane would have murdered
both wife and child.

Cassidy worked from four in the morning until
eight, at night, and at times through the day he
would run up from the claims to the house, to see
that all was well. -All he made went to keep the
house going, and it was given as a matter of

Cassidy 163

course. No complaint was made, although Mallan-
dane now ceased even the pretence of work and
spent the whole day in the canteens.

But the end came when least expected. Mallan-
dane, when he did come home at all, did not get
up until hours after Cassidy was at work. He
used to awake drunk and dazed, and wander off
at once, unshaven, dirty and half dressed, to the
nearest canteen.

One morning, however, there was a change.
He was gray-faced, puffy and sodden, it is true,
but he fussed about the house briskly, talkiag to
himself. He got out a clean moleskin suit, and
told the servant that he could not wait for break-
fast, as he had to fire the eight o'clock shots, and
the holes were aU charged and waiting for him.

Within a quarter of an hour Cassidy had come
up for breakfast. Mjs. Mallandane met him on
the way and told him what the servant had in -
the meantime told her ; and Cassidy raced back
to stop his delirious partner. With a madman's
cunning and instinct he had slipped down the
mine from ledge to ledge and along dangerous
slopes until he reached the lowest workings, and
when Cassidy, after some delay in getting a
bucket on the hauling- gear to go down in,
reached the spot, the boys told him that Mallan-
dane 'umtagati' (bewitched) had gone into the

11—2

1 64 Cassidy

drive to fire the charges, and would let no one go
near him.

Cassidy looked at the black mouth of the drive.
He did not think of the worthless sodden wretch
who had gone in there. He recalled the partner
of years, the mate of good times and bad, and he
recalled, too, the horror-stricken look on the face
of the woman he had just left. He dashed in to
the sound of a warning yell from every man in
the mine.

When occasion calls there is stitl no lack of
brave men. Heroes spring into recognition fi:"om
every grade of life, from every class of material ;
and while the half-dozen explosions still echoed
and reverberated in the circle of the mine, there
were men dashing in to the rescue at the
imminent risk of their lives, heedless of the
deadly fumes and of possible unexploded charges.

' The firm ' lay in one heap — ^Cassidy on his
back, Mallandane athwart him. To the only
person to whom he ever spoke of the affair,
Cassidy said : ' He was stooping to light another
fuse when I reached him. I gripped both arms
round him as he turned on me and tried to
carry him out. It was a wrestling match, for he
showed fight. My face was over his one shoulder,
as his was over mine ; but mine was turned
towards the shots.'

Cassidy 165

A piece of the rock that shattered poor Cassidy's
face entered the back of his partner's head, and
he never stirred again.

Cassidy lay for months in hospital, bandaged,
blindfolded, barely alive ; and the woman he had
stood by, stood by him. When he was able to
walk about, it was on her arm he leaned. When
he was fit to leave, it was to her house he went
to be tended for months longer. He never
complained nor lost heart, although he knew that
one eye was gone and thought he would lose the
other.

Some seven or eight months had passed, and
he was getting well and strong — he was healing.
She had always dreaded the effect of the first
sight of himself, and for this reason had removed
the mirrors from the rooms he frequented ; but
one day, when she had been out for a while, she
found him lying on the sofa, the bandage off his
eyes, and a hand-glass dropped on the carpet
close by. It was the only time he had fainted or
in any way given in.

Later in the evening he said :

' I don't really mind so much now that I know.
It was the suspense that worried me.' And, after
a pause, he added in a voice that seemed to let
you hear his heart lifting : * I'll be able to tackle
work again soon, and wiU be all right again.'

1 66 Cassidy

' That was the only allusion,' Mrs. Mallandane
said, ' that he ever made to his disjfigurement.
I believe it was out of delicacy and consideration
for my feelings that he never spoke about it.
You could not even see that he ever thought of
it, for he had that splendid manliness that doesn't
know what self-consciousness means.

' Only one thing showed unmistakably that he
did feel it, and that he felt he was dead to all the
promise of his past. You must have remarked
his manner of speech ?' she observed, turning
to me. * He spoke like a working man. That
was his only shield. He deliberately sank him-
self to that level to be spared the prominence and
pity that would be given him as a gentleman.
It was his hope to pass through life unnoticed.
With me, and with me only, he had no disguise,
no concealment, no reserve !'

He used always to talk of their affairs as one
and the same, in order to keep up the illusion he
had encouraged in her from the beginning when
he had told her very seriously that ' it would
never do to liquidate the firm's business now. It
would mean sacrificing everything.' She agreed
to do whatever he thought right ; and at the
end of every month he used to hand to her,
scrupulously accounted for, a sum greater or less,
according to ' the firm's profits for the month.'

Cassidy 167

From his own ' profits ' he always managed to
have something — ^no matter how little — to spend
on Molly, who was his pet and companion always.
The proceeds of the sale of house and furniture —
when they had to be given up — were handed over
to Mrs. Mallandane ' for a stknd-by,' and she went
into lodgings because she ' would feel more com-
fortable and have more time to give to Molly
there' — not because he was watchful over her
goqd name and would not stay in the house opce
he was well enough to walk alone.

When Cassidy extended the firm's ' business ' —
that is to say, went to the Cape Colony, Natal,
and Transvaal, in search of contracts on the
various railway lines — he continued to remit the
' profits ' with the most elaborate statements,
which Mrs. Mallandane, as a partner, felt bound
to study, and, as a woman,' often wept over in
despair.

This had gone on for several years, and it was
not until after she had gone to Barberton, 'to be
near the business,' that something had made her
suspicious that the joint capital locked up in the
business was aU a generous imposition.

' It only needed the suggestion,' said Mrs. Mal-
landane, ' to show me an appalling chain of evi-
dence — evidence of his generosity and patient
tactful help— evidence of my blind content and

1 68 Cassidy

foolishnees. I spoke to him when next he came
in. He could see that I knew, and he simply
said that " Ralph would have done the same for
him." God forgive me ! He gave up his Hfe to
me ! He suffered living death for me ! He lived
when it would have been a million mercies to
have died. He bore all that man could bear and
never grudged it. And I — I cut his heart in two
when I refused his help ! I know it ! I wished
I had died before I got the look he gave me when
I told him that I could not take his help. Month
after month went by and he did not come to me
^-he, who used to be here on the first day of every
month. But I knew he was near. Twice I saw
him passing, slowly by at night when he had
come to watch over us. The first time I was too
surprised to call. The second time I called him
and he came to me. He stayed until late that
evening ; and he went away happy again because
we registered our second compact : that if we
(Molly and I) were ever in real need I would
send for him ; that if he were sick or in need
of friends the privilege of friends should be
ours.'

She stopped for quite a while, and when she
spoke again her voice trembled and it was all
she could do to control it so that she could speak
at all. I could not bear to look in her face.

Cassidy 169

' You two have seen him,' she said, and,
turning to me, added, ' You have known him. I
have liked to tell you all about him ; and I like
to tell you now that I know he loved me — that I
think it is the greatest honour a woman can have
to be loved by such a man : for not any woman
that I have ever known, or heard of, or read of,
was good enough for him !'

She left the room for a moment, and re-
turning, laid something on the table before us,
saying :

* You remember him as you saw him. Try —
try to think of him as I do — ^like this ! It is
all you can do for the memory of a good and
honourable man.'

It was the photograph I had seen in her book
the day I left to bring him in.

AU those things happened some years ago.

Out on the grass there, in front of my window,
there is a little girl trying to dissuade a very
small boy from puUing the black ear off an old
white bulldog ; but the fat little fists keep their
grip, and as he staggers under the effort the little
chap says :

' MoUy mus' puU Dan'l Conn'l oUa ear ! Mahe
him det up !'

1 70 Cassidy

Watching them with the brightest, merriest
smile in the world, and looking years younger
than when I first saw her, Mrs. ^

But if I mentioned her name this would not
be an anonymous story.

THE POOL.

Everyone remembers the rush to De Kaap some
years ago. How everyone sdd that everyone else
would make fortunes in half no time, and the
country would be saved ! Well, my brother Jim
and I thought we would like to make fortunes too ;
so we packed our boxes, donned flannel shirts, felt
hats and moleskin trousers, with a revolver each
carelessly slung at our sides, and started. We in-
tended to dig for about a year or so, and then sell
out and live on the interest of our money — £30,000
each would do. It was all cut and dried. I often
almost wished it wasn't so certain, as now one
hadn't a chance of coming back' suddenly and sur-
prising the loved ones at home with the news of a
grand fortune.

Full of excitement (certainties notwithstanding)
we went down to Kent's Forwarding Store, and
met there Mr. Harding, whose waggons were loaded

172 The Pool

for the gold-fields. This was our chance, and we
took it.

On November 10, 1883, we crossed Little
Sunday's Eiver and outspanned at the foot of
Knight's Cutting. The day was close and sultry,
and Harding thought it best to lie by until the
cool of the evening before attempting the hUl. It
wasn't much of a cool evening we got after all ;
except that we had not the scorching rays of the
sun beating down upon us, it was no cooler at
10 p.m. than at mid-day. We were outspanned
above the cutting, and the oppressive heat of the
day and the sultriness of the evening seemed to
have told on our party, and we were all squatted
about on the long soft grass, smoking or thinking.
Besides my brother and myself there were two
young Scotchmen (just out from home) and a little
Frenchman. He was a general favourite on ac-
count of his inexhaustible good-nature and un-
flagging high spirits. ,

We were, as I have said, stretched out on the
grass smoking in silence, watching the puffs and
rings of smoke melt quietly away, so still was the
air. How long we had lain thus I don't know, but -
I was the first to break the silence by exclaiming :

' What a grand night for a bathe !'

There was no reply to this for some seconds,
and then Jim gave an apathetic grunt in courteous

The Pool 173

recognition of the fact that I had spoken. I sub-
sided again, and there was another long silence —
evidently no one wanted to talk ; but I had be-
come restless and fidgety under the heat and still-
ness, and presently I returned to the charge.

' Who's for a bathe V I asked.

Someone grunted out something about ' no
place.'

' Oh yes, there is,' said I, glad of even so much
encouragement ; and then, turning to Harding, I
said :

' I hear the water in the kloof. There is a
place j isn't there V

'Yes,' he answered slowly, 'there is one place,
but you wouldn't care to dip there. . . . It's the
Murderer's Pool.'

' The what V we asked in a breath.

'The Murderer's Pool,' he repeated with such
slow seriousness that we at once became interested
-^the name sent an odd tingle through one. I
was already all attention, and during the pause
that followed the others closed around and settled
themselves to hear the yarn. When he had tanta-
lized't,us , enough with his provoking slowness,
Harding began :

•About this time last year By-the-by,

what is the date ?' he asked, breaking off.

' The tenth !' exclaimed two or three together.

174 The Pool

' By Jove I it's the very day. Yes, that's
queer. This very day last year I was outspanned
on this spot, as we are now. I had a lady and
gentleman with me as passengers that trip. They
were pleasant, accommodating people, and gave
us no trouble at all ; they used to spend all their
time botanizing and sketching. On this after-
noon Mrs. Allan went down to the ravine below
to sketch some peculiar bit of rock scenery. I
think all ladies sketch when they travel, some
more and some less. But Mrs. Allan could sketch
and paint really well, and often went off alone
short distances while her husband stayed to chat
with me. She had been gone about twenty
minutes when we were startled by a most awful
piercing shriek — another, another, and another---
and then all was still again. Before the first had
died away Allan and I were running at full speed
towards where we judged the shrieks to have come
from. Fortunately we were right. Down there,
a bit to the right, we came upon a fair-si^ed pool,
on the surface of which Mrs. AUan was stiU float-
ing. In a few seconds we had her out and were
trying restoratives ; and on detecting signs of re-
turning life we carried her up to the waggbns.
When she became conscious she started up with
oh ! such a look of horror and fright. I'U never
forget it ! Seeing her husband, however, and

The Pool 175

holding his hand, she became calm again, and told
us all about it,

'It seems she had been sitting by the side of
the stream sketching the pool and the great per-
pendicular cliff rising out of it. The sunlight was
plajdng on the water, silvering every ripple, and
bringing out every detail of the rocks and foliage
above. - Feathery mosses festooned from cliff to
cliff; maidenhair ferns clustered in every nook
and crevice ; the drops on every leaf and tendril
glistened in the setting sun like a thousand
diamonds. That's what she told us.

' She sat a few minutes before beginning, watch-
ing the varying shades and hues, when, glancing
idly into the water, she saw deep, deep down, a
sight that horrified her.

' On the rocks at the bottom of the pool lay
the body of a gigantic Kaffir, his throat cut from
ear to ear, and the white teeth gleaming and
grinning at her.

' Instinctively she screamed and ran, and in
trying to pass along the narrow ledge she
slipped and fell into the water. Had her clothes
not buoyed her up she would have been drowned,
as when the cold water closed round her it seemed
like the clasp of death, and she lost conscious-
ness.'

' Well, what about the nigger ?' 'I asked, for

1/6 The Pool

Harding had stopped with the air of one whose
tale was told.

* Oh, he was dead right enough — ^throat cut
and assegai through the heart. A fight, I expect.'

' What did you do T I asked.

' Eaked him out and planted him up here some-
where. Let's see — yes, that's the place ' — indi-
cating the pile of stones my brother was sitting
on.

Jim got up hurriedly; perhaps, as he said, he
wanted to look at the place. Yet there was a
general laugh at him.

' Did you think he had you, Jim V I asked
innocently.

' Don't you gas, old chap ! How about that
bathe you were so bent on V

Merciful heavens 1 The words fell like a bucket
of ice-water on me. I made a ghastly attempt at
a laugh, but it was a failure — an utter failure —
and of course brought all the others down on me
at Once.

' The nigger seems to have taken all the bathe
out of you, old man,' said one.

' Not at all !' I answered loftily. ' It would take
more than that to frighten me.'

Now, why on earth didn't I hold my tongue and
let the remark pass ? I must needs make an ass of
myself by bravado, and now I was in for it. There

The Pool 177

was a perfect chorus of, ' Go it, old man !' ' Now,
isn't that real pluck ?' ' Six to four on the nigger !'
' I pet fife pound you not swim agross and dife two
times.' This last came from the little French
demon, and, being applauded by the company, I
took up the bet. The fact is I was nettled by the
ehaff, and in the heat of the moment did what I
regretted a minute later.

As I rose to get my towel I said with cutting
sarcasm :

' I don't care about the bet, but I'll just show
you that everyone isn't afraid of his own shadow ;
though,' I added forgetfully, 'it's rather an un-
reasonable time to bathe.'

Here Frenchy struck a stage attitude, and said
innocently :

' Ah I vat a night foor ze bade !'

The shout of laughter that greeted this sally was
more than enough to decide me, and I went off in
search of a towel.

Harding, I could see, did not like the idea, and
tried to persuade me to give it up ; but that was
out of the question.

' Mind,' said he, ' I'm no believer in ghosts ; yet,'
he added, with rather a forced laugh, ' this is the
anniversary, and you know it's uncanny.'

I quite agreed with him, but dared not say so,
and I pretended to laugh it off. I was ready in a

12

178 The Pool

few moments, and then a rather happy idea, as I
thought, struck me, and I called out :

'Who's coming to see that I win my bet V

' Oh, we know we can trust you, old chap !' said
Jim with exaggerated politeness. ' It'd be a pity,
you know, to outnumber the ghost.'

' Very well ; it's all the same to me. Good-bye !
Two dives and a swim across — is that it V

' Yes, and look out for the nigger !'

' Mind you fish him up I'

' Watch his teeth, Jack !'

' Feel for his throat, you know !'

This latter exclamation came from Jim ; it was
yelled out as I disappeared down the slope. Jim had
not forgotten the incident of the grave, evidently.

I had a half- moon to go by, and a ghostly sort
of light it shed. Everything seemed more shadowy
and fantastic than usual. Besides this, I had not
gone a hundred yards from the waggons before
every sound was stiUed ; not the faintest whisper
stirred the air. The crunching of my heavy boots
on the gravel was echoed across the creek, and
every step grated on my nerves and went like a
sword-stab through me.

However, I walked along briskly until the
descent became more steep and I was obliged to
go more carefuUy. Down I went, step by step,
lower and lower, till I felt the^ light grow dimmer

The Pool 179

and dimmer, and then quite suddenly I stepped
into gloom and darkness.

This startled me. The suddenness of the change
made me shiver a bit and fancy it was cold ; but it
couldn't have been that, for a moment later the
chill had gone and the air was close and sultry. It
must have been something else. Still I went down,
down, down, along the winding path, and the
further I went the more intense seemed the still-
ness an4 the deeper the gloom.

Once I stood still to listen ; there was not a stir
or sound save the trickling of the water below.
My heart began to beat rather fast, and my breath
seemed heavy. What was it ? Surely, I thought,
it is not fright ? I tried to whistle now as I strode
along, but the death-like silence mocked me and
choked the breath in my throat.

At last I reached the stream. The path ran
along the side of the water among the rocks and
ferns. I looked for the pool, but could not see a
sign of it. Still I followed the path until it wound
along a very narrow ledge of rock.

I was so engrossed picking my steps along there
that, when I had got round and saw the pool lying
black and silent at my feet, I fairly staggered back
with the shock. There was no mistaking the place.
The pool was surrounded by high rocks ; on the
opposite side they ran up quite perpendicularly to

12—2

[8o The Pool

a good height. Nowhere, except the ledge at my
feet, would a man have been able to get out of the
water alone. The black surface of the water was
as smooth as glass ; not a ripple or bubble or straw
broke its awful monotony.

It fascinated ,me ; but it was a ghdstly spot. I
don't know how long I stood there watching it.
It seemed hours. A sickening feeling had crept
over me, and I knew I was afraid.

I looked all round, but there was nothing to
break the horrid spell. Behind me there was a
face of rock twenty feet high with ferns and
creepers falling from every crevice. But it lookpd
•black, too. I turned silently again towards the
water, almost hoping to see something there ; but
there was stUl the same unbroken surface, the same
oppressive deadly silence as before. What was the
use of delaying ? It had to be done ; so I might
as well face it at once. I own I was frightened.
I would have lost the bet with pleasure, but to
stand the laughter, chaff, and jeers of the others !
No I that I could never do. My mind was made
up to it, so I threw off my clothes quickly and
came up to the water's edge. > I walked out on the
one low ledge and looked down. I was trembling
then, I know.

I tried to think it was cold, but I Tcnew it was
not that. I stooped low down tq search the very

The Pool i8i

depths of the pool, but I could see nothing; all
was uniformly dark. And yet — good God ! what
was that ? Eight down at the bottom lay a long
black object. With starting eyes I looked again.
It was only a rock. I drew back a pace and sat
down. The perspiration was in beads on my fore-
head. I shook in every limb ; sick and faint, my
breath went and came in the merest whispers.
So I sat for a minute or two with my head rest-
ing on my hands, and then the thought struck
me, ' What if the others are watching me above 1'

I jumped up to make a running plunge of it,
but, somehow, the run slackened into a walk, and
the walk ended in a pause near the ledge, and'
there I stood to have another look into the dark,
still pool.

Suddenly there was a rustling behind me. I
jumped round, tingling, quivering all over, and a
pebble rolled at my feet from the rocks above. I
called out in a shaky voice, ' Now then, you chaps I
none of that ; I can see you.' But really I could
see nothing, and the echo of my voice had such a
weird, awful sound that I began to lose my head
altogether. There was no use now pretending that
I was not frightened, for I was. My nerves were
completely unstrung, my head was splitting, and
my legs could hardly bear me. I preferred to face
any ridicule rather than endure this for another

1 82 The Pool

minulie, and I commenced dressing. Then I
pictured to myself Jim's grinning face, Frenchy's
pantomime of the whole affair, Harding's quiet
smile, and the chaff and laughter of them all, and
I paused. A sudden rush, a plunge and souse,
and I was in. Breathless and gasping I struck out,
only twenty yards across ; madly I swam. The
cold water made my flesh creep. On and on,
faster and faster; would I never reach it? At
last I touched the rocks and turned to come back.
Then all their chaff recurred to me. Every stroke
seemed to hiss the words at me, 'Feel for his
throat! Feel for his throat I' I fancied the dead
nigger was on me, and every moment expected to
feel his hand on my shoulder. On I sped, faster
and faster, mad with the dread of being entangled
by the legs and pulled down — I swam for life.
When I scrambled on the ledge I felt I was saved!
Then all at once I began to feel my body tingling
with a most exhilarating sense of relief after an
absurd fright, a sense of power restored, of self-
respect and triumph and an insane desire to laugh.
I did laugh, but the sepulchral echoes of my
hilarious cackle rather chilled me, and I began to
dress.

Then for the first time occurred to me the con-
ditions of the bet : ' Two dives and a swim across.'
Now, this would have been quite natural in ordinary

The Pool 183

, pools — ^a plunge, a scramble on the opposite bank,
another plunge, and back. But here, with the
precipitous face of rock opposite, it meant two
swims across and two dives from the same spot.
But I did not mind ; in fact, I was enjoying it
now, and I thought with a glow of pride how
"I would rub it into Jim about fishing up his darned
old nigger with the cut throat.

I walked to the edge smiling.

' Yes, my boy,' I murmured, ' I'll fish you up if
you're there, or a fistfuU of gravel for Jim and
Frenchy — little devil ! It'll be change for his
fiver ;' and I chuckled at my joke.

I drew a long breath and dropped quietly into
the water, head first ; down, down, down — gently,
softly. A couple of easy strokes and I glided
along the bottom. Then something touched me.
God in heaven ! how it all burst on me at once !
I felt four rigid fingers laid on my shoulder and
drawn down my chest, the finger-nails scratching
me. Instantly I made a grasp with both hands ;
my left fastened on the neck of a human body, and
my right, just above, closed, and the fingers met
through the ragged flesh of a gashed throat.

I tried to scream — the water choked me. I let
go and swam on, and then up. I shot out of the
water waist high, gasping and glaring wildly, and
then soused under again. As I again came up I

184 The Pool

dashed the water from my eyes. I saw the surface
of the pool break, and a head rose slowly. Kind
Heaven! there were two! Slowly the two bodies
rose across the black margin where the shadow
ceased, full in the moonlit portion of the pool —
cold, clear and horrible in their ghastly nakedness.
And as they rose the murderous wounds appeared.
The dank hair hung over their foreheads ; the^
glazed and sightless eyeballs were fixed with the
vacant stare of death on me. One bore a terrible
gash from temple to eye, and lower down the bluish
red slit of an assegai on the left breast.

On the other was one wound only ; but how
awful ! The throat was cut from ear to ear ; the
bluish lips of the great gash hung wide apart
where my hand had torn them. I could even see
the severed ^windpipe. The head was thrown
slightly back, but the eyes glared down at me with
an awful stony glare, while through the parted lips
the teeth gleamed and grinned cold, and bright as
they caught the light of the moon. One glance-
half an instant — showed me all this, and then, as
the figures rose waist-high, I saw one arm rigid at
right angles to the body from the elbow, and the
stiff hand that had clawed me. For one instant
they poised, balancing ; then, bowing slowly over,
they came, down on the top of me.

Then indeed my brain seemed to go. I struggled

The Pool 185

under them. I fouglit and shrieked ; but I suppose
the bubbles came up in silence. The dead stiff
hand was laid on my head and pressed me down —
down, down ! Then the hand of death slipped, and
I was free. Once I kicked them as I struggled to
the surface, and gasping, frantic, mad, made for
the bank. On, on, on ! God ! would I never
reach it 1 One more eflfort, a wrench, and I was
Out. Never a pause now. One bound, and I had
passed the ledge ; then up and up, past the cliffs,
over the rocks, cut and bleeding, on I dashed as
fast as mortal man ever raced. Up, up the stony
path, tiU, with torn feet and shaking in every limb,
I reached the waggon. There was an exclamation,
a pause, and then a perfect yell of laughter. The
laugh saved me ; the heartless cruelty of it did
what nothing else could have done — it roused my
temper ; but for that, I believe I should have gone
mad.

Harding alone came forward anxiously towards
me.

'What's the matter 1' he asked. 'For God's
sake, what is it ?'

The laugh had sobered me, and I answered
quietly that it was nothing much — just a thing I
would like him to see down at the pool. There
were a score of questions in anxious and half-
apologetic tones, for they soon realized that some-

1 86 The Pool

thing was wrong ; but I answered nothing, and so
they followed me in silence, and there, on the oily,
unbroken surface of the silent pool, floated in grim
relief the two bodies. We pulled them out and
found the corpses lashed together. At the end of
the rope was an empty loop, the stone out of which
I must in my struggle have dislodged. Close to
the nigger we laid them, with another pile of stones
to mark the spot ; but who they were and where
they came from none of us ever knew for certain.

The week before this two lucky diggers had
passed through Newcastle from the fields, going'
home. Four years have now passed, letters have
come, friends have inquired, but there is no news
of them, and I think, poor chaps ! they must have
' gone home ' by another route.

TWO CHRISTMAS DAYS.

It was Christmas Day at New Rush — the Christmas
of '73. ^^ No merry peals rang out to celebrate the
"occasion — there were no bells. The streets were
not decorated with festoons or buntitig — there
were no streets to decorate. The usual lot of
church-goers : men in broadcloth, women in gay
colours, childrerii heat and spotless, Praygr-book in
hand — these were not the features of the day.
There was no broadcloth, there were no women,
there was no church — only long straggling rows
of white tents, only a lot of holes of various
depths and a lot of heaps of debris, only a lot of
men in flannel-shirts and moleskins, broad brimmed
hats and thick boots, the bronzed, bearded, hardy
pioneers of the Diamond Fields. They had no
church, but they could celebrate Christmas as well
as those who had. There was a function which
appealed to their feelings as Britishers — a popular,
time-honoured function, whose necessary auxiliaries

1 88 Two Christmas Days

were at hand. They coald not go to church, but
they could get drunk ; and they did.

All through the day the songs and cries and curses
of the celebrants bore ample testimony to their de-
votion. The canvas canteens were crowded, and the
bare spaces around them were strewn with empty
bottles and victims of injudicious zeal. Within
and without the one never-ending topic was
diamonds ; diggers backed their finds for weight
or colour, shape, or number. Fortunes were
held in clumsy, grog-shaken hands, and shown
round as 'last week's finds'; all was clamour,
festivity, and drink.

And this was Christmas Day ! And the same
sun that blazed down so fiercely on the drinking,
and scorched the unconscious upturned faces of the
drunk, shone softly on the dark hedges and snow-
clad meadows of old England. It saw the fighting
and drinking of a turbulent New World and the
peace and quietness of a respectable Old one. It
saw the adventurers seeking fortune and the homes
for which they worked. Add across six thousand
miles of land and ocean it looked down alike on
the men who waste or struggle and the women
who wait and pray.

In a fly-tent, away from the noisy portion of the
camp, sat John Hardy — -sober. Out of sorts, out of
heart, and dead out of luck, he had neither' the

Two Christmas Days 189

means nor the inclination to get drunk. Ten
months on the fields had about done for him.
Other men came with nothing ; they had made
fortunes and left. He came with a few hundreds,
the proceeds of the sale of his farm and stock.
He had sacrificed everything to come to this El
Dorado — and now ! Now the farm was gone and
the money too. Bit by bit it had slipped away.
The last thing to go was the cart and mule ; he
had managed to keep those till yesterday, but the
grub score had to be met — one must live, you
know — and the old mule and cart went the way
of the rest. Last night he had changed his last
fiver and paid his boys. Now all he had in the
world was a bit of ground (thirty by thirty), a
few old picks and shovels, two blankets, and a
revolver.

All through the day he had heard the noise of
shouting and singing, but it awoke no responsive
chord. Every burst of merriment jarred on him.
The first man he had met had smilingly wished
him a merry Christmas. Great Heaven I was the
man a fool, or was it a devil jeering at him?
Merry ! Ay, with black ruin on him, his hopes
blasted and his chances gone. And this was
Christmas, when human beings were gasping and
blistering between the parched plain and the blue
sky, where a fierce relentless sun blazed down

190 Two Christmas Days

upon them. Everything mocked him. Truly,
when a man is down, trample on him ! When it
comes to this, that his own feelings are a hell to
him, the more material, things matter little. There
is a limit to mental as well as physical pain ; the
mind becomes numb and the feelings spent. But
Hardy had not yet come to this, and he felt
acutely .the sarcasm on his own fate that this
Christmas Day presented.

At sunset he went out to take a last look at the
hole that had swallowed up his all. Indeed, it was
a poor exchange for the grand old farm and the
cattle and sheep and horses, and, above all, the
home that his dead wife had made a heaven of for
the five years of their married life. For himself
he cared little, but his little girl — her child ! —
whom he had left behind with friends ! In his
mad speculation he had robbed her — his darling,
the one loving memento of his dead wife ! Well,
to-morrow at sunrise he would take the £15 for
the claim, and hire himself out as a miner to the
new owner.

The setting sun glinted over the workings and
shed its golden light on the mine, ribbed out by
roads and divisions, all in little squares like the
specimen-cases in museums. There were hundreds
of those squares, and his was one, and a worthless >
one at that. Yes, he would take the £15, and

Two Christmas Days 191

lucky to get it, for every man in camp knew lie
had not found a stone worth mentioning.

. For over two hours he sat in the little low tent ;
a dusty lantern dangled from the ridge-pole and
shed its weak, uncertain light around. His supper
he had forgotten, and he sat at the rough packing-,
case table, his forehead resting on his arms, in-
wardly and silently cursing his luck and himself
and the place with the bitterest curses his mind
could frame. A revolver lay on the table before
him — a grim sort of companion for a ruined man.

Presently a step came along the path — the step of
one walking cautiously to avoid the scores of tent-
lines and pegs that were stretched and stuck in
every direction. As the step came closer Hardy
looked up, and a head was thrust through the flap
of the tent.

' I was taking Jack Evans home and he asked
me to give you this. It came yesterday, but he's
been spreeing and forgot it.'

The man stepped in and tendered a square
envelope, and stood sUent.

' Won't you sit ?' asked Hardy, scarcely glancing
at him as he pushed an empty gin-case forward.

' Well, just a minute, thanks.'

The young fellow sat down and watched Hardy
in silence. The latter took the letter mechanically,
but brightened up instantly as he saw the writing.

192 Two Christmas Days

Grently and carefully he opened it, and from the
envelope came a cheap Christmas card of flowers
done in flaming colours — common and garish. That
was all! No letter, nothing else. On the back
was written, ' For dear Father, from his little girl,
Gracie.'

For a moment Hardy looked at it steadily, and
then the hard sunburnt face softened, the mouth
twitched once or twice, and two tears trickled
slowly down and dropped on the card. The man's
head was lowered slowly untU it rested on his
arms again, and for a couple of minutes there was
silence in the tent. The bitterness, the loneliness,
the desolation were gone from his heart. What no
reverses could bring about, and what no philosophy
could resist, was done by a cheap, tawdry Christ-
mas card sent by a child.

Presently he looked up and reached a small
framed photograph from above his bed. ,

' It is from my little girl,' he said, and handed
the card and photograph to the youngster.

The boy looked at them. The photograph was
that of a child of about eight, with a rather
pleasant expression and large, wondering, honest-
looking eyes. He looked at it closely for a minute
or so, and nodding kindly once or twice, handed
it back without a word. As Hardy turned lio
replace the photograph the youngster leant forward

Two Christmas Days 193

quickly, took up the revolver, and slipped it intp
his pocket.

He had been gone ten minutes or so, when again
a step came along; the flap was lifted, and without
a word the youngster re-entered, drew the gin-
case up opposite Hardy, and took a long steady
look at him. To Hardy's ' Hallo ! what's up ?' he
returned no direct answer, but his eyes, which
before had borne a. calm, uninterested look, now
shone with an eager brilliancy that could not fail
to attract attention. His olive-brown face was
pale, almost white now, and when he did speak it
was, though slowly, with evident excitement, and
he coughed once or twice as if feeling a dryness in
the throat.

' The chaps say you are broke,' he said.

• Dead broke !' Hardy replied wonderingly.

' Have you anything left ?'

' Nothing-— absolutely nothing !'

' Where's your claim ?'

' Going to-morrow !'

The youngster shook his head and smiled faintly.
He was so evidently in earnest that Hardy sub-
mitted in simple wonder to the cross-examination.

' Have you found any stones ?'

' Not five poimds' worth in ten months !'

' Where are your boys ?'

' Grone. I paid them off' yestierday.'

13

194 Two Christmas Days

' No, they're not gone. Look here,' he added
more quickly, ' when I was here before I took your
revolver. You see, it looked to me as if you
meant using it. Here it is. You can use it now
on someone else.' The youngster leant forward
and spoke lower and faster. ' When I left you
I walked along the old path a bit, but my sight
was spoilt by the candle here and I got oflF the
track. I stood for a minute, and then heard some
Kaffirs talking, and I went towards the sound. I
called to them, but they didn't hear me; and I
was walking up closer when I caught something
that made me listen all I knew. I heard more
and crept closer. I got quite close up and looked
through the grass. There were five boys sitting
round a stump of lighted candle ; there was a bit
of black cloth before them, and tjbej' were counting
diamonds! There was a mustard-tin full. I crept
back about twenty yards and called out. The
light was blown out at once, and when I called again
one boy came out. I asked him who was his baas,
and he brought me to your hut.'

Hardy sat dazed for, a moment. Mechanically
his hand closed on the revolver that was placed in
it, and then, rising, he followed the lantern which
the youngster had taken.

They entered the hut and caught the boys in the
act of dividing the spoil. They found the mustard-

Two Christmas Days 195

tin full, apd on each of the Kaffirs a private supply
hidden there from his mates.

John Hardy slept that night as those sleep who
have borne their burden and have reached the place
of rest. And he saw a picture in his dreams. The
canvas tent was a palace of white marble, and as
he lay there things of beauty were strewn around
him ; but, surpassing all these, there hung in mid-air
before him a wreath of bright and many-coloured
flowers, more lovely than any he had ever seen ;
and within its circle was the face of a child, and
above it all there was a line of little crooked
'vy^riting, and the letters, which stood out in shining
gold, were, ' For dear Father, from his loving little
girl, Gracie.' * That was John Hardy's Christmas

dream.

*****

In 1885 New Rush, and Colesb/lrg Kopje were
names well-nigh forgotten, and there reigned in
their stead Kimberley and its neighbouring camps.
In proportion as the tented camp had grown into
a great city, in proportion as the puny diggings
had become a mighty mine, in like proportion had
men and things altered ; and even so had John
Hardy thriven and prospered. One stroke of luck
had placed his foot on the first rung of Fortune's
ladder, and a cool shrewd head had done the rest.
Hardy the digger, in his little canvas tent, was no

13—2

196 Two Christmas Days

more, and in his place stood John Hardy, Esq.,
capitalist, speculator, director of companies, etc.
But the change, after all, was no change at all: the
man was the same, and the very traits which, with
his fellow-diggers, had stamped him as a white
man, now won him the respect of a different class.
Calm and self-contained, straightforward and in-
corruptible, he was as popular as such men can be.
In one particular especially was he unchanged.
His ' little girl ' was still his ' little girl,' in spite
of the fact that she was now over twenty. During
ten years he had not lost sight of her for a week,
and in all the world he had not one thought, one
wish, one desire, that had not for its aim her
happiness and pleasure. On the banks of the
Yaal River he had made his home. It was an
old farm, with great, big old trees and shady
walks and green hedges, and there was an
orange-grove that ran down to the river-side, an)i
a boat on the water, where one could glide about
breathing the breath of the orange-blossoms.
Here Hardy spent nearly all his time, perfectly
happy and contented in the society of his ' little
girl.'

But even so there were crumpled rose-leaves in
John Hardy's bed. The first was the thought that
some day she, his child, would lovei^. someone else,
and he who had idolized her all his life would be

Two Christmas Days J97

superseded by a stranger of whose existence even
she was not yet aware. The other was a now
half-forgotten ungratified wish — the wish to find
the youngster who had done him such service
twelve years before. Every effort had failed, every
expedient proved fruitless. Not knowing his
name, having hardly noticed his appearance, what
chance was there of finding him ? He had but one
guide, Leaning across the rough table in the weak
uncertain light of the lantern that night, he had
looked full and fair iit the youngster's eyes, and
he thought he would know them. If ever he got
the chance of looking into them again, he would
make no mistake. He remembered their colour,
he remembered them dark and dormant when he
brought in Grace's letter ; he recalled thern again,
lustrous and expressive, when he returned to the
little hut, and could see them now, warming,
quickening, brightening, till they flashed with
excitement as he said, ' They were counting
diamonds.' Every little incident of that night
was burned into his memory, but of the general
appearance of the boy he knew nothing. He had
not seen his figure, standing or walking, except
for an instant, and that when he was paying little
heed. He had not seen his face, except in one
position — full — and that so close as to miss the
general impression. So many years had passed

198 Two Christmas Days

without a sign or clue that Hardy had long given
up all hope of discovering his friend, and, indeed,
he seldom thought about him now. When the
thought did recur to him it came more as a regret
that he had not found him than as a hope that he
would.

It was Christmas Eve, and John Hardy was
going into camp to arrange matters so that he
would be free from all- business during the holi-
days and could spend his Christmas and New
Year at home undisturbed. The cart and grays
had already disappeared over the rise. G-race had
waved her good-bye and wandered off into the
garden. There were the cheerful sounds of life
about which, seem peculiar to a bright summer
morning. The finks on the river, the canaries in
the field, the robbers in the orchard, vied with each
other in pouring out volumes of song, . lavishly ,
squandering the Wealth of their repertoire, and, as
a sort of accompaniment to them, came the distant
and pleasantly monotonous cackling of hens.
Every variety of time, key, and voice was there, ,
and all in rivalry, yet forming together a drowsy
harmonious symphony of peace. Miss Grace
wandered on, pruning here, plucking there, now
stooping to see where the violets hid their heads,
now running her hand lightly through the clusters
of roses. She made her way slowly towards the

Two Christmas Days 199

house, looking fresh and bright in her white dress.
The brown -holland apron was caught up and
filled with bright azalea blossoms. The broad-
brimmed garden-hat had slipped back, showing
waves of golden hair; her lips arid fingers, too,
were stained with mulberries ; at her breast was
a bunch of violets to match the eyes above them.
Altogether, she was not the least attractive part of
the picture that summer morning, and probably
she knew it. From the broad-flagged stoep of the
house to the gravel sweep in fi-ont there were a
dozen or so steps, and on the top step of all Miss
Grace turned and stood. The gravel walks and
big trees, the flower-garden wildly luxuriant, the
orange-grove, and beyond them the reach of river,
looking placid and blue in the morning sunlight,
all made up a delightful picture ; and she, with
her snow-white dress and bright-coloured flowers,
looked and enjoyed it. The gentle morning
breeze, laden with "the scent of flowers, played
on her cheeks and just stirred the feathery golden
hair on her temples as she stood there.

Presently someone, a stranger, rode up and,
dismounting, led his horse to the foot of the steps,
and, raising his hat slightly, asked for Mr. Hardy.

' He has just gone into Kimberley. He is not
half an hour gone,' Miss Grace replied.

The man looked disappointed.

200 Two Christmas Days

' That is unfortunate. I have come a long way
to see him. I mtist see him. When will he be
back?'

' This afternoon or this evening, I hope ; but
possibly not until to-morrow morning. But won't
you come in and rest a little ?'

The man gave his horse to a boy and walked
slowly up the steps. For some moments he
made no reply, and at last, looking at her in an
abstracted kind of way, apparently without really
seeing her, muttered :

• Well, that is awkward !' He paused again, deep
in thought, and, seeming to arrive at some con-
clusion, he said, ' Miss Hardy, I must see your
father ; it is a matter almost of life and death, and
I am almost certain to miss him if I follow him
now. Will you allow me to wait- until he
returns ?'

' I shall see Mr. Whitton, my father's agent, at
luncheon, and if he' can put you up you are very
welcome to stay.'

The stranger bowed, inwardly a little amused
perhaps at Mr. Whitton's position in the matter.

Miss Hardy suggested that possibly he had not
yet breakfasted, and as the surmise proved entirely
correct he was left to entertain himself while she
went off to give the necessary orders.

Breakfast over, the young man returned to the

Two Christmas Days 201

stoep, and in an enclosed portion of it discovered
Miss Grace among the ferns and hot-house plants.
For some minutes after the first few remarks he
watched in silence, and then, as she paused to
study the effect of a rearrangement in a small
basket of ferns, he asked quietly :

' Are you Miss Gracie ?'

She looked up quickly, flushing a little, and
then said coldly:

' Yes, I am Miss Hardy.'

* I mean no impertinence. Miss Hardy, I asked
if you are Miss Gracie because I heard of you by
that name twelve years ago.'

' Indeed ! Then you are an old friend of my
father's ?'

' Well, yes, I believe he would consider me so.
But I should have told you my name before this.
Pardon the omission. Ansley it is ^- George
Ansley.'

' Ah — Mr. Ansley! Yet I don't remember. ever
hearing him speak of you. But be sure of this, if
you were his friend then, you will be his friend
now. He does not forget old friends. Let me see.
"Twelve years ago. Those were the early days —
those were his hard times when you knew him.'

' Yes, he was down then — very down ; and I
am very glad he has prospered. No man better
deserved it.' •

202 Two Christmas Days

The girl's eyes grew a little misty' — this was her
weak point. She looked up at him, saying simply:

' Thank you.'

Ansley smiled slightly, and said :

' There was a photograph of you that he had
then. A little girl in short dresses, a very serious,
earnest-looking little, girl — all eyes. I can re-
member wishing to see you then. I wanted to see
if your eyes really looked like that. They do,
you know. But, still, I can't imagine that you
are his " little girl." '

Miss Grrace laughed and blushed a good deal under
the scrutiny and criticism, and suggested good-
humouredly that if he would go with her she would
show him the original photograph, and he could
satisfy liimself on that point.

From one of the drawing-room tables she took a
folding frame made to hold two photographs, and
pointing to the right-hand one, handed it to him.
After a full minute's close inspection, Ansley
looked up, smiling gravely at the girl.

' There is no mistaking it,' he said ; ' that is the
photograph. I would know it anywhere. It
made a great impression on me when I first saw it
on account of a little incident that was m a sort of
way connected with it.'

' What was that ?'
' As she asked the question he glanced from the

Two Christmas Days 203

photograph to the other side of the frame, where
there was a little faded, old-fashioned Christmas
card. As it caught his eye a half-suppressed
exclamation escaped hipa, and, oblivious of the
girl's presence, he drew the card out and read the
writing on the back ; and then, glancing out
through the open window, he thought of how he
had first seen it.

As Miss G-race looked at him, she saw that his
brown sunburnt face looked a little lined and care-
worn. Under the dark moustache the mouth
drooped rather sadly at the corners, and the eyes
were large and sad too just now. She watched
him for a little while, and then, interrupting his
thought, said gently :

' Well, Mr. Ansley, I am waiting to hear the
incident of which I was the unconscious heroine.'

' A thousand pardons. It was thinking of that
very incident that made me forget your question.
It cannot be an accident that those two cards are
in the same frame. Of course, you must know the
history ?'

' Of course, I do ; but surely you cannot ; why,
the Christmas card it is impossible that you could
have seen.' ~ /

' No, not impossible. Miss Hardy. It was I
who brought it to your father the night he found
the diamonds !'

204 Two Christmas Days

' The girl stood before him, hands clasped, and
amazed. Wonderingly she looked at him, and the
more she looked the more she wondered. How
utterly different from what she had fencied! In
her mind's eye she had seen a tall, awkward youth,
loose-jointed and rough, silent and stupid, and here
was the real Simon Pure, tall and slight, certainlyi
but supple and well-knit, quiet and courteous.

'Well, this is wonderful!' she exclaimed at last
in helpless amazement ; and then her face flushed
with generous- enthusiasm. ' Oh, Mr. Ansley, you
don't know what pleasure, what happiness this
will be to my father! You don't know how he
has longed to find you. This will be the happiest
Christmas he has ever spent.'

' Do you really think he will be glad to see
me?'

' Oh, you don't know him if you can ask such a
question. But why did you never come to us
before ?'

' Because I never wanted his help before, and I
could not have refused it. He is the only man in
this world from whom I would ask help, and I
have come to ask it now. It is no trifle. It will
be the hardest>task he has ever had.'

' Whatever it is, Mr. Ansley, if he can do it he
will. I would pledge my life on that. He owes
you much, and I owe you what I can perhaps

Two Christmas Days 205

never in all my life repay. At least, you will let
us be your friends.'

She extended both hands to him as she spoke.
The soft firm touch of the girl's hands sent a
pleasant tingle through him. It was genuine. It
made him feel that this time he had fallen amongst
friends. A feeling that he had never known in his
life came over him, the feeling that there was a
home where he would be always welcome, and that
there were two people who would always be
genuinely glad to see him.

The first surprise over, she made him recount
most minutely every detail of that Christmas
night. He told how the letter had been entrusted
to him for delivery by the tipsy digger, and every
little incident up to the finding of the diamonds.

'When we found the tin full,' he said, 'we were
so excited that we thought very little of the boys.
We searched them one by one and passed them
behind us. I had passed the last, when I turned
and found your father standing by me looking
helpless and dazed, instead of guarding the door, as
I thought he was doing. I looked round, and saw
that the boys had bolted, so I took the packets we
had found on them and put them down on the
piece of oilskin with the tin. I thought it best
then to leave' him to himself, and as he stooped
slowly to pick up the diamonds I stepped put of

2o6 Two Christmas Days

the hut and went home. I should have seen him
the next day, I am certain, but when I got home
I found my father and a digging friend mad with
excitement about a new find some thirty miles
off. We started for the place that night, and did
not return for some months.'

' But how was it you did not meet him even
then ?'

Ansley laughed, as he answered hesitatingly :
' Well, Miss Hardy, the fact is, I did often meet
him ; but I was a youngster then — very foolish,
and sensitive, and proud in my silly boyish way,
and though I knew well and often heard that he
wanted to find me, I could not bring myself to
go up to him and say, " I am the man who saved
your fortune for you." It seemed to me I might
as well have said, " What do you mean to pay
me?" I could not do it. And though I knew,
too, that he could not possibly recognise me from
the very imperfect view he had of me in the dark
little tent, yet when I met him in camp I used to
turn away from him and feel hurt and sick and
sore that he did not know me. Then a little later,
as you know, he left Kimberley, and was away for
a long, long time, and so it has been during twelve
years. He has been much away, and so haye I,
and although I have often seen him, we have never
actually met. Once in London 1 1 would, have

Two Christmas Days 207

spoken to him. I was then, as I thought, a rich
man, and I could aflFord to speak without fear of
being misunderstood, but I missed him. I wish to
God I had not, Miss Gracie ; I wish I had met you
both then. Nothing has gone well with me since.
Bad luck has followed me and all connected with
me since then. It is the last and worst stroke tliat
has brought me here.' He looked into the lustrous
eyes and sympathetic face of the girl, and added,
half playfully, half sadly : ' I wish I had met you
before ; I believe you would have changed my
luck. Do you know, I think you are one of those
who bring good luck. You have a good influence
— I can feel it.'

' If I have ' — and the girl laughed brightly—' I
mean to exert it from this very moment. Firstly,
then, you must get out of the blues. Secondly,
you must make up your mind to stay till my
father returns ; and thirdly, you will have to
submit with the best grace possible to the infliction
of my company while I show you the sights and do
the honours of our home.'

Whatever sacrifice of personal feelings Ansley
may have made in the cause of gallantry was borne
with Spartan fortitude and concealed with ad-
mirable skill; in fact, a casual observer would
have been inclined to think that he rather liked it.

2o8 Two Christmas Days

If he was not very talkative and lively,, lie made
up for it by being an admirable listener — one of
those listeners whose very look is full of quiet and
intense appreciation of all that is said. She was
content to play the cicerone, and it pleased him too,
and so the morning passed.

She took him through the grounds, idling along
amongst the summerhouses and trellised rose-walks,
telling him of their life there, of their plans, of her
own life during the years that had passed since he
first heard of her — ^in fact, all the reminiscences
which form the heart, and charm of the meeting,
whether of old Mends, or of the friends of old
fiiends, or of those who have a common bond of
sympathy wrought in a distant country or in a
troublous time.

Luncheon over, Miss Grace may have thought
she had answered the calls of hospitality, or she
may have been tired of his company, or she may
have thought that the change could do him good-^
it is hard to say. But, any way, she handed hm
guest over to the tender mercies of Whitton, and
•for the rest of the afternoon, instead of her talk
and Tier company, Ansley had to put up with the
agent and his dissertations on farm prospects for
the coming season.

At about sundown, returni:pg with Whitton fi-omr
an inspection of the stables, 'Ansley saw with no

Two Christmas Days 209

little relief and satisfaction a slim figure in a gray
dress moving about the lawn ; and, leaving the
estimable but prosy Whitton with the flimsiest of
apologies, he joined his hostess.

' Really, Miss Hardy,' he said, coming up to her,
' I began to think you had vanished like the " base-
less fabric." I was afraid you were going to leave
me with Whitton for the evening as well.'

' Did you not enjoy his company, Mr. Ansley ?
I- think him so entertaining and instructive,' she
added demurely.

' Oh yes, indeed !' he answered hastily ; ' but I
mean, I think he knows too much for me. You
see, I don't quite follow his theories — at least, some
of them.'

' What a prettily - inferred compliment, Mr.
Ansley!' and, making him a mock-curtsey, she
added, ' Then you think / am sufficiently stupid
to be entertaining ?'

' Quite so, Miss Hardy — more of my own calibre,
you know,' he returned, laughing.

' Thank you for that, too. My friend, you have
a ready wit, and have got out of it better than you
deserved ; and, though you don't merit it, I mean
to show you the river this evening — that is, if you
are quite sure that you wouldn't prefer listening to
Mr. Whitton.'

' Well, Miss Hardy, I could devote a lifetime to

14

2io ^Two Christmas Days

agriculture, but the passion of my life is certainly
exploring. Your descriptions have so fired my
soul with enthusiasm and ambiti'on that I am afraid
I shouldn't die happy if I didn't know the geography
of this part of the river. In the cause of science,
let us go.'

"The girl answered gravely :
'In the cause of science, we shall go.'
The evening was one of those stilly^ cool
summer evenings so common in South Airica,
when the night seems full of still life ; the moon-
light, strong and clear, has nothing sombre in it,
and the gentlest of cool breezes plays through the
leaves, bearing along with it the commingled sceiits
of all the blossoms.

As they walked down the gravelled path through
the orange-groves the crickets sang merrily all
around, and from the river came the sound of the
frogs — that most curious of all evening sounds.
From the house it sounded like one monotonous
roar, but as one drew nearer the river the indi-
vidual voices could be distinguished, and every
note on the gamut was given by that orchestra.
N^ow and again, without any apparent reason, the
music would suddenly cease and a dead silence
ensue ; and then, doubtless at a signal from
the conductor, the whole band would strike up
again.

Two Christmas Days 211

They strolled on down to the little jetty where
the boat was moored, and helping his companion to
the cushioned seat in -the stern, Ansley pushed the
little craft out and rowed lazily up in mid-stream.

From the river the groves and gardens showed
up most distinctly, and over and beyond them the
house was discernible under the huge trees that
stood at the sides and back of it. The moonlight
softened and- silvered everything, and the scent of
the orange-blossoms gave a dreamy, exquisite,
impalpable finish to the night.

Pausing in midstream, Ansley asked his com-
panion if she knew the song ' Carissima,' adding,
'You know, I think it must have been on
such a night as this that he serenaded her in his
boat. " The moonlight trembling on the, sea," and
" the breath of flowers," that he sings of are here,
and " the orange-groves so dark and dim " — now
all, we want is the dreamy, distant sound of the
" Vesper Hymn." Will you sing the song itself,
Miss Hardy? That will be better than any
" Vesper Hymn." '

She sang, as he asked, in a sweet, low voice
suited to the song and the time and the surround-
ings ; and as the last call of ' Carissima,' ,^ so
appealingly gentle, so soft and clear, floated away,
he rested on his oars and watched her. Presently

he said :

14—2

212 Two Christmas Days

' There is, I think, no power so far-reaching, so
univer:sally felt, as the power of music. There is
none — excepting, of course, the magnetic power of
individuals over each other — which can so stir a
man's better nature. It seems — and especially at
night — to elevate one's thoughts and hopes, to
strike a higher chord in human nature.'

' Yes, it is so. It raises a feeling of devotion.
To me, it is the poetry of religion.'

And so they talked as the boat glided along ;
talked of the ' little things we care about,' which
are of no interest to anyone else, but which help
us greatly to know one another. And the time
slipped quietly by, like the silent water moving to
the eternal sea. Now and then there were scraps
of conversation, but more often the long silences of
content. The girl lay back in the cushioned stern
trailing one hand in the water, barely cool after
the long summer day ; the man dipped his oars
now and again for the slowest, laziest of strokes,
and watched the blades glisten in the moonlight
and the diamond drops plash back on the shining
surface of the water.

Once or twice in the long silences Ansley had
roused himself, and half bent forward, as though
about to say something, but, changing his mind,
had taken a few lazy pulls at the oars and sent the
boat gliding along again. But when they turned

Two Christmas Days 213

,to drift down stream again he shipped the oars,
and, after a little pause, said :

' If you do not mind, I should like to tell you
something of the business that has brought me
here. I want help for a friend, and I want advice —
your adyice ! But, even apart from that, I should
like you to know.'

She answered promptly and truthfully :

' I should like to know, a,nd oh ! I would give
anything to help you 1'

' I believe you would like to help me, Miss
Grade ; indeed I do !' Ansley said, flushing a
little nervously. ' You can scarcely realize what
a diflferenee this day has made to me. This morn-
ing I would have said I had but one friend in the
world, now I believe I have three ; and that makes
all the diflferenee in the world to me. I confess I
did hope, though I was by no means sure, that
I could count on you and your father ; but I feel
more confident now. You have been more than
kind to me, and even if your father cannot help
me, yet for the welcome you have given me I
shall always count you as my fi-iends.'

The girl, for answer, put out her hand to him.
The firm, honest grip, or the mere act perhaps,
seemed to confuse him for the moment, to put^him
off ; . and he sat silently looking down into the
hands which had just released hers. It was only

214 Two Christmas Days

for a few seconds, however, and then he looked up
at her and began abruptly :

' My other friend is a man named ITorman. It is
on his account that I have come here. He has
been on the Diamond Fields off and on ever since
they were found, and, like all others, he made and
lost money alternately until about two years ago ;
then the death of his father, with whom he had
always shared interests, left him large holdings in
several of the best companies. The business had
been conducted under the style of Norman and
Davis, and on the father's death young i^orman
left everything in the hands of Davis and went off
on an eighteen months' trip. About six months
ago he returnedj and found that his position was
not all that he had imagined it to be. He found
Davis as a man a pretty wealthy man, but
he found the firm of Norman and Davis as a
firm an exceedingly poor one. The first glance
showed him that Davis had worked with system.
Whether the conversion had been effected during
his absence only or during his easy-going father's
lifetime it was impossible to say; but the fact
remains that the assets which he had looked upon
as his had been converted to Davis's personal
estate, and were as secure to him as law could
make them; Aflier some weeks of search, how-
ever, he found amongst his father's papers some-

Two Christmas Days 215

thing which, though not in itself of great import-
ance, yet gave him a good clue, and, making a
guess at the probabilities in the case, he wrote to
Davis demanding a full settlement in the matter of
certain shares which he could now prove belonged
to the firm. To cut a long story short, Davis, not
knowing what documents had been discovered and
fearing a complete exposure, offered to compromise.
The more the one yielded the firmer was the other's
stand, and it was not till after several interviews
that any arrangement was come to. Throughout
the whole business Davis's tone had been one of
contemptible cringing and meanness. Pleading his
family, heavy losses, bad times, and a lot more in
that strain, he begged Norman not to be too hard
on him. A day was appointed for final settlement,
when Davis would hand over some of his ill-
gotten wealth. Norman called at the office as
appointed, and found his father's partner in a more
cheerful fi-ame of mind, seemingly resolved to
accept the inevitable with the best possible grace ;
he treated the matter as a purely business trans-
action. Finally, he asked Norman to leave the
documents with him to allow his clerk to take
copies of them. If Norman would call back in
half an hour a lawyer would be in attendance, and
the business would be finally settled. J^orpaan
rose to go, and as he opened the door, Davis said

2i6 Two Christmas Days

in a clear, low voice these words: "I am sorry
you ' have done it, Norman. I cannot have any-
thing to do with that kind of business." As he
turned to inquire what Davis alluded to, the door
closed sharply, and he found himself in the pas-
sage and two strangers looking very hard at him.
There is no use telling you all the details. Miss
Gracie. I feel like a demon when I think of it
now. He was arrested and searched, and in one
of his side coat-pockets they found a small packet
of diamonds. This was proved against him at the
trial by the detectives, who swore also that they
had heard, as they stood outside the door, Davis
refuse to " have anything to do with that kind of
business." The clerk swore to Norman's several
visits, when he always refused to state his busi-
ness, wishing to see Mr. Davis privately. Davis
himself of course with great reluctance gave evidence
against his late partner's son. He told how he had
of late been so pestered over this business that
he had at last given information in self-defence,
fearing that one day it would be discovered, and that
he, though wholly innocent, would be incriminated.
He hoped the Court would not be hard on the
prisoner, as he was sure this was his first offence,
and a lesson would suffice. The prisoner, he said,
was naturally a straightforward, honest man, and
he had never known anything against him before,

Two Christmas Days 217

etc. The defence was characterized as a miserable
failure, and the sentence on the prisoiner was
"seven years." I cannot tell you, Miss Hardy,
half the horrors of that time. It was so terrible
that I believe when the trial was over the cer-
tainty was no worse to him than the suspense had
been. But the cruellest blow of all was to see
friends drop away and sheer off when friends were
most sorely needed. Norman said he had never
seen the diamonds until they were found in his
pockets by the detectives, and he could only think
it was Davis's fiendish device to place them there
while they were talking over the documents in the
office. This explanationWas openly laughed at.
However, the law did not^ke its course — whether
it was an act of negligence or covert friendship it
is hard to say — Norman himself does not know;
but an opening occurred two days after the trial,
and he took it. ¥ext to him stood one of the
police-inspector's horses, saddled and ready, even
to the revolver in the holsters. The act was so
sudden that no attempt at pursuit could be made
till he was well away towards the border. Gallop-
ing along in the early morning, he met no one for
some miles out of camp, until on nearing the border,
on the road before him, and coming leisurely towards
him, he saw another horseman alone. Slackening
his pace to allay suspicion, it was only when close

21 8 Two Christmas Days

up that he recognised his late father's partner — the
cause of his ruin — Davis ; and not until Norman
drew up before him did Davis recognise the man
whom he believed to be in gaol. Paralyzed
with fright, he sat his horse speechless and help-
less. Norman rode up closer until their knees
touched, and taking one rein in his hand, he held
Davis's horse. " You see I'm out," he said curtly.
Davis, white and trembling, could not answer a
word. " Give me all the money you have — every-
thing of value. It is all mine, and I want it."
The miserable wretch handed out all his money
and his Wateh, together with several diamonds,
only too probably the fruits of that early ride.
Then Norman spoke again, with, you might say,
pitiless hatred. " You know, Davis, what you have
done ! You know it is worse than death to me.
Death would have been a thousand times better.
You know — of course, a religious man like you must
know^-that retribution means an eye for an eye ;
but I will not be as hard on you as you were to
me. I cannot have your liberty, or your reputation.
I cannot break your heart; but I can shoot you,
and, by God, I will! Don't. whine, you cur — /
didn't, when you dealt me a worse blqw, Stand
back and take it," There was a report, a scream,
and — Davis was settled with.'

Ansley stopped. Before him shone the lustrous,

Two Christmas Days 219

anxious, frightened eyes of the girl. Her face was
colourless, and her hands clasped tightly together.
As he stopped there came from the closed lips a
breathless whisper—' Ah, God !'

For a full minute he sat looking at her, expect-
ing, hoping she would say more ; 'but what she had
heard seemed to fill her with thoughts too full for
words. She asked no explanation — no reason —
she could see them all herself. For the present
she cared no more about his friend's after-fate — the
fatal scene seemed too complete of itself to admit
of anything more.

He looked at her wistfully, and said in a husky,
pleading voice : ' ,

' Nothing can justify that, Miss Hardy, I know :
but before you judge him, before you refuse your
sympathy and help, think of the awful trial ; think
of the fiendish cruelty of the man who had ruined
him ; and think of how they met.'

' M-y sympathy is stronger than ever,', she
ans^wered, looking up at him. ' It was a terrible
revenge, but no one can say it was more than
justice.'

The girl sat silent again, thinking on what she*
had heard. Ansley was silent, too, feeling a little
sore and disappointed at what he thought her
disapproval of his friend ; but in reality he was
mistaken, and her sympathy was the deeper that

220 Two Christmas Days

it was not expressed. Several minutes passed
thus before either stirred or spoke again.. Then
Miss Hardy rose and gathered her shawl about
her, saying :

' Come, let us go home. I feel chilly, and oh ! I
cannot bear to think that a human being's life
can be so spoiled, so utterly, irretrievably ruined.
It is too cruel. Indeed, it almost makes one
think that this world is not the work of a God of
Justice and Mercy. It is horrible! It frightens
one to think that misfortune can so single out one
man for persecution worse than death. We have
but one life — one short little life, to live, and then,
to think that, do what we can, that may be spoiled
for us for ever !'

' Do you think that his chance is gone, then —
gone for ever ? He is still young. Do you think
nothing can wipe it out V

' Why do you ask me 1 You know it is a thing
one cannot outlive. What would it help that you
and I were his friends — ^you and I and father ? — for
I know it will be so. I would honour him for his
wrongs. I would be proud to be his friend. But
it would always hurt to feel the sneers and insults
levelled at him. Were they never so weU hidden,
he would know that they were there. But, for
that very reason, I would be proud to take his
hand before ajl the world.'

Two Christmas Days 221

Ansley's glance kindled with pleasure to see tlie
girl's earnestness, and, as he looked at her, he
thought again of the photo he had seen that night
twelve years ago. The honest, fearless look of the
child came back to him, and it seemed to him
that the woman was that child — and something
more.

As they reached the stoep she turned to him,
standing on the bottom step, and said gently :

' You wiU pardon my thoughtless chaff about
your melancholy, won't you? I did not know
then, but now I understand.'

* Never speak of it. Miss Grace. I knew you
well enough even then to not misinterpret it.
IJowever, we havp finished with melancholy now,
haven't we 1 Do you know,' he added, smiling up
at her, ' that it is past twelve o'clock, and Christ-
mas morning ? Let me wish you , every happiness
and every blessing. I think you deserve them. 1
told you I thought you had a good influence, and
were born to make others happy. Now I am sure
of it. I can speak from experience, for I have felt
happier to-day than for many a long day past.'

' If I am that, what are you ? Why, you are a
Christmas-box yourself. Eemember, I have taken
possession of you, and mean to present you to
father to-morrow morning as my Christmas-box*
In the meantime you are mine.'

222 Two Christmas Days

' And right welcome is my fate, my lady. Good-
night.' He held her hand lingeringly as he spoke,
then slowly bent and touched it with his lips,
saying, ' Good-night, Gracie, my good angel !'

There was a faint whi&per, ' Good-night,' and she
ran quickly up the steps and disappeared indoors.
* * * * *

The sun had barely risen when Ansley,- restless,
and anxious for Hardy's return, left his rooms.
Whitton, the overseer, was starting on horseback
to go his morning rounds, and Ansley, glad of any
means of passing the time, accompanied him. For
a couple of hours he rode along with the overseer,
listening absently to his one theme of conversation, ,
but as it neared breakfast-time he struck off by a
cross-path and rode slowly in the direction of the
house.

This Christmas morning Miss Hardy was un-
usually late, and at seven o'clock she was startled
by hearing the sound of a cart on the gravel out-
side. Catching her father's voice, she hastened to
dress, and in a few minutes was downstairs to meet
him; but the servant told her that he had just
ridden off with three others, and had left word that
he would be back again shortly, and that she must
not wait breakfast for him, as he had some most
important business to attend to. Wondering much '
what business could have been important enough

Two Christmas Days 223

to take him away so suddenly, especially on a
Christmas morning, Miss Grace resolved, at any
rate, to prepare her surprise for him, and sent for
Ansley. But he too had gone out with "Whitton,
and not returned yet ; and she, none too well
satisfied, had to be content with her own company.

Having been unable to get away again the pre-
vious day, and having resolved to spend Christmas
Day with his daughter. Hardy had left Kimberley
long before dawn that morning. Driving along as
he neared home, Hardy presently heard the sound
of horses' hoofs coming on fast behind him, and,
looking round, he saw two men ride up. One was
a neighbotiring farmer with whom he was slightly
acquainted, and the other 'a stranger to him. The
farmer told him hurriedly that Norman, the
escaped I. D. B. convict, highwayman, murderer,
and horse-thief, had been seen in the vicinity, and
the detectives — ^pointing to his companion — were
out after him. Hardy could give them no infor-
mation, having just come out of KimbBrley himself,
and they were in the act of parting when another
horseman came up — the second detective — with
the news that he had seen Norman within the last
half-hour, but, as he was well mounted and armed,
had come for help.

People at a distance from the Diamond Fields
cannot realize the hatred and contempt felt by the

224 Two Christmas Days

honest section there for the I.D.B.'s. It is the
crime without parallel there, so that it is not to be
wondered at that John Hardy instantly eagerly
offered to join the party if they would accompany
him to his house, a short way on, where he would
leave the trap, and get a mount and arm himself.

Very few minutes elapsed before Hardy, the
farmer, and two detectives were riding along fa§t
in the direction in which Norman had been seen.
A quarter of an hour's riding brought them to a
rise at a considerable distance from the house, and;
coming up first, Hardy, wha had the best horse,
signalled to the others to stop at once ; and, dis-
mounting at once, he crept up to watch the man
who was riding slowly towards them.

Walking his horse leisurely along, Ansley was
lost in the thought of his mission, in speculation as
to how Hardy would receive it, and in the recollec-
tion of the previous day and evening. A happier
look floated across his face as he thought of the
young girl standing on the step above him, bathed
in the soft moonlight, and his blood quickened a bit
as he recalled the timid whispered ' Good-night.'

Suddenly a sense of danger came upon him, and,
looking up quickly, he fancied he saw a man's head
duck behind the ridge of hUl. Eeining up his
horse instantly, he waited for a moment or so,
watching intently and warily the while. Then,

Two Christmas Days 225

turning his horse's head, he rode towards another
elevation, stUl watching the spot where the head
had disappeared.

As ke turned four horsemen dashed out, and
scattering wide apart, rode towards him. With a
muttered curse he tightened the rein and galloped
off in an opposite direction. The man's face, soft
and gentle as a woman's a moment before, grew
hard and colourless ; his mouth was set, and his
eyes had a bright and wicked gleam in them.

Riding at their best ot^er the rough ground,
Ansley kept his lead, easily ; but Hardy drew away
from the others, and they, seeing the chase tend
towards the river, took a cut down to the nearest
crossing, hoping to cut the pursued man off on the
other bank, or take him whUe swimming the fiver,
as he would have to do further down.

Seeing that Hardy was alone, Ansley slackened
his pace tUl only thirty yards divided them, then,
raising his open hand, called to him by name to
stop. The answer was a revolver shot, closely
followed by a second one, one of which whistled
unpleasantly close. Seeing the man with whom
he had to deal, Ansley let his horse go, and heading
fot the deepest part of the river, soon had a lead of
several hundred yards. Plunging into the river,
he swam his horse across, and as he neared the
other side, Hardy, who had ridden his best in the

15

226 Two Christmas Days

last bit, came up to the bank and again fired at
him. The bullet splashed far behind him, and,
looking round, he saw Hardy force his horse iato
the stream to follow him.

As he reached the bank Ansley slipped off and
loosened the girths, then turned and watched his
pursuer. The look on his face was not good to
see : the expression was vindictive and cruel,
for the man's spirit was bitter with rancour. This
was the sorest blow of aU, that the man who owed
him all he had — ay, even his life most likely ! —
should go out of his way to hunt him down and
shoot him like a dog. As he watched, a gleam of light
shot into his eyes and a smile flashed across his face,
for Hardy's horse began to fail, and once or twice
it stopped. The third time it reared up as it felt
the spurs again, and Hardy, to save himself, swung
off and tried to seize the pommel of the saddle ;
but the frightened, tired horse swayed round and,
striking out wildly with his front feet, brought one
down with a crash on Hardy's bare gray head. He
was but twenty yards from the bank ; he made
one weak effort to swim — a white upturned face
showed for a moment and then disappeared.

Ansley stood perfectly stiU, the same snule stiU
curling the comers of his mouth as he watched his
pursuer go down. As the water closed over the
pale set face, there came to him the faint, trembling

Two Christmas Days 227

sound of a whispered * Good-night !' A run, a
spring, a few quick strokes, and he had the drown-
ing man by the collar and was dragging him out.
A minute later he stretched him out on the bank,
and waited for the effects of the blow to pass off.

' My God !' he thought, ' what a demon I have
become ! Her father and my friend, and I would
have let him die because unknowingly he injured
me. I would have done it, too, but for her 1'

Hardy lay against a grassy bank, and p,t the first
sign of returning consciousness Ansley leaned over
him, chafing his hands and watching his eyes for a
sign of recognition.

' Where am I V he asked faintly. ' Ah, I see — I
know !' And as he became stronger, he said : ' Ah,
I have you ; you are my prisoner.' He made a
feeble effort to grasp Ansley's throat, but, looking
up into his eyes, he dropped back suddenly with a
look of intense excitement, exclaiming eagerly :
'Man! Who are you? What is your name?
Surely — surely you — the diamonds, you know, that
Christmas night ! I know you ! Now I know you !'

Ansley looked at him steadily, and answered :

' Yes, Mr. Hardy, I am the man you have
looked for. My name is George Ansley Norman.
But just lie quiet for a few minutes, and you'll; be
all right. And then we'll get back to the house as
soon as we can !'

15—2

228 Two Christmas Days

Hardy closed his eyes and groaned aloud, but
after a pause said falteringly :

• Norman — but the convict — it cain!t be true ! my
God ! it canH be true !'

' It is true, Hardy. I am the convict, but there
was no crime. Between man and man, and by
the God above me, I am as innocent of it as you
are.'

' My boy, I believe you, and thank God for it,'
said the old man fervently, and the tears came into
his eyes as he added brokenly : ' And to think
that I tried to shoot you. You, my best of
friends — how can you forgive me !'

' Oh, that's all right now — you see, you didn't do
it, so it doesn't matter ; besides, you did not know
me, and how could you help it V

WhUe they were talking, on the same bank, a few
yards off, the farmer and the two detectives were
crouching behind the bushes and creeping closer up.

Hardy spoke again, and a painful flush suffused
his face.

' It is the revolver you took from me that night.
I have kept it ever since. I might have shot you
with it. Take it from me again, and keep it, for
my sake !'

He handed it up as he spoke, and Ansley took it,
turned it round once or twice, and stooped to help
his friend to rise.

Two Christmas Days 229

As he bent forward, a voice. called out :

' Shoot quick, before he kills him !'

Two revolver shots rang together, and with a
haJf-stifled cry, Ansley threw up his arms and
dropped at Hardy's feet. A wild scream of agony
burst from Hardy, and, weak as he was, his arms
were in an instant round his friend.

' My God !' he cried wildly, ' you have murdered
him ! Stand back ! leave him ! Speak to me, my
boy, speak ! Where is it ? Where are you hit 1'

But Ansley shook his head; his face was drawn
and pale, and there was a look of intense suffering
in his eyes. His voice quivered as he whispered
slowly :

• Home — old chap — home — home — your
daughter. I want — to — speak — to — her !'

So they carried him back as gently, as tenderly as
they could — the man they had hunted and shot
down ; they laid him on the bed he had that morning
risen from,, and three of them left him. Whitton
came in and would have tried to stanch the wound,
but Ansley shook his head. In broken whispers he
told Hardy how he had come to the house and
waited for him; how he had met Grace aiad told
her all, excepting only his identity. He asked
him to go to her and tell her that, and ask her
would she come to him that he might see her once
more.

230 Two Christmas Days

The smile of welcome died on Grace's lips as she
saw her father's face. He told her all as best he
could. There was no attempt at control — it would
have been useless. The sorrow-stricken old man,
with sobs and tears, tried to break it to her, but it
required little telling. Distracted with sorrow,
remorse, and love for ' his boy,' as he called him, he
blamed himself for it. He lost all control of him-
self.

• My child ! my child ! three times I tried to
shoot him. I would have killed him ; and yet I
should have drowned, and he saved me — he saved
me — the man I tried to shoot I He saved me— he
was helping me, when — oh, my God ! — they shot
him through the back. Come to him, my child.
Gracie darling, be brave and bear up. Oh, God !
they have killed him !'

She went alone to where the dying man lay.
Softly she entered, but he heard her, and his
eyes followed her as she walked to his side. In
silence she sat by him, taking his hand and stroking
it gently. Slowly he was bleeding to death, yet
his eyes were bright as he looked at her. He
smiled at her and whispiered huskily :

' I told you you were my good angel, and see,
you have come to me. I cannot thank you enough.
I asked for you because I want you to bid me one
more good-nigh fc — good-night for ever. I want

Two Christmas Days 231

to hear you say I am your friend, of whom you
are not ashamed. Can you say it, Grracie V

The words, the look, were too much. The girl's
pent-up grief burst out in one heart-broken cry,
and, falling on her knees, she kissed the hand of the '
man whom rightly or wrongly she honoured above
all men.

*****

This was their Christmas Day — twelve years
since first their paths had crossed — twelve circles
in the web of life! They were three units
•amongst the countless millions of the earth, and so,
what of them 1 What of sorrow 1 What of
death 1 What of the wreck of new-born hopes 1
For to the countless millions it is still A Merry
Christmas !

THE END.

BILI/INO ADS SONS, FBINIEBS, OUIUIFOBD.